


Baker Street Advent 2014

by OtakuElf



Series: Biological Clock [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Advent Calendar, Christmas, Christmas Tree, John's Jumpers, M/M, Parentlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-01
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-02-27 17:20:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 32,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2701046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OtakuElf/pseuds/OtakuElf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slices of seasonal life for the inhabitants of 221B Baker Street.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. December 1st:  Fairy Lights

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my beta, Lunamoth116! Check her out at : http://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaMoth116/pseuds/LunaMoth116
> 
> And thanks to Azriona, whose Advent calendar last year inspired me to do one this year. Check out her stuff, it's terrific! http://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
> 
> Also, please check out this Advent series by Tammany that I am also following and really like! http://archiveofourown.org/series/181727

Baker Street. Fairy lights. John Watson carefully climbed the stepladder to make an arch of them over Mrs. Hudson’s doorway. He was not planning to duplicate the broken wrist he’d had to set earlier that day. All of the accidents at the surgery lately seemed to be from seasonal decorating. The tip of one of the lights got hooked into his holiday jumper - oatmeal-colored, but with pine trees marching across the chest. Dr. John Watson, formerly of the 5th Northumberland fusilliers, enjoyed wearing something other than a uniform, whether it was from the RAMC or his current post at the sugery. Carefully he loosened the light - without pulling the wool - and made sure the bulb was secure in its socket. He had already twined a set up the dark wood of the banister railings, and another over the front door.

“Mmmmm,” came from up the stairs. At the top, secured by a baby gate, Siger had pulled himself up. The baby was not standing quite yet, but he certainly wanted to do so. Siger was dressed in a miniature blue jumper sporting a small white rabbit. “Nnnnnmm.” 

“Yes, Siger, sweet.” John talked to his son as he looped the wire into cup hooks around the top of the door. “I am putting fairy lights up for Mrs. Hudson. She keeps her door open, more often than not, and this will be a good start to the Christmas season. First day of Christmas, you understand.”

“Why would he understand that, John?” came the baritone of his partner who had clearly finished his examination of the latest crime scene photos. “How many days of Christmas are there?” 

John shot a glance away from his work, up the stairs to where Sherlock Holmes was standing, now holding their son. “It’s Advent, actually.” John understood that Sherlock was likely to have deleted this inconsequential information. “Advent leads up to Christmas. The days of Christmas come after. Twelve days of Christmas and after.”

Unlatching the gate, the tall man, still slender, though he and John had put on weight with the baby in the apartment, carried Siger downstairs on his hip. “Siger -” he gave that head, still covered with red curls, a kiss, then went on speaking to the baby “- John is getting into the holiday spirit. So. December first we put up fairy lights to prepare for _Père Noel_. What? Do they guide him to our chimney, John?”

“Nope.” John popped the last sound. “They bring joy to _Grand-mère_ Hudson. Which is a good enough reason to put them up. Are they straight? Crooked?”

Sherlock stepped forward, reached up and gave a tug to one end. “Straight. Now.”

John growled. “Tall git.” He climbed down, and began to collapse the ladder.

“Mmmmm,” commented Siger, gnawing on his _père’s_ elegantly-suited shoulder.

“Perhaps,” Sherlock put forward hesitantly, “we could put some around our doorway as well. Inside of 221B. For Siger.”

That brought a cocked head, and a happy look from the face beneath the thatch of sand-coloured hair. “Yah. For Siger.” The lights looked quite splendid when he was done. For all that it had taken twice the time with Sherlock’s input. John almost fell off the ladder laughing. Siger had given them a long series of sounds that Sherlock interpreted for John as, “Thank you, Daddy, for increasing our electrical bill!”

John grinned and gave their son a kiss. He leaned up to kiss his partner, long and sweet. Siger, embraced between them, commented at length. Sherlock took a deep breath, then asked, “Is it fairy lights, then? For kissing under? I thought it was mistletoe?” 

“Trust you to remember that,” John said as he finally put the stepladder away.

“Mistletoe is a poison, John,” he was reminded. John resolved to purchase some mistletoe at the next opportunity. He could stow it high enough to be out of Siger’s reach. Humming as he followed the detective and the child up the stairs, he began to think about where he could conceal it until the right time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first day of any month is White Rabbits Day!


	2. December the second:  Baking Cookies

Oh, the scent of real vanilla, browning sugar, and melting butter. Mycroft Holmes was slapped in the face by the lovely odor as he passed through the front door into 221. Allowing the door to close behind him and pulling off his kidskin gloves, the tall, slender man’s pointed nose twitched as he took in a deep, satisfying breath. 

The holidays, always a time of revelry and overeating. Mrs. Hudson would be baking cookies daily until then. Mince pies, possibly, Dundee cake. Spiced cookies. Temptation upon temptation. This was the season where Sherlock would invite his brother to stop and pick up inconsequential items, timed to his landlady’s baking schedule. The woman had taken up chocolate making over Easter, and that had been nearly unbearable.

Taking in the twinkling overhead leading him up the steps to B and his brother’s flat, Mycroft inferred that John had installed the strings of tiny lights. Mycroft could not fathom his brother climbing a ladder for anything unrelated to a murder investigation, let alone ensuring the decorations would stay fastened. Treading carefully up the seventeen steps, he unlatched the gate - accustomed now to its intricacies - refastened it behind himself, and stepping over an errant rubber ball, he entered the flat.

“Mmmmmmm!” his nephew greeted him as the small form scuttled over the carpet toward him. Mycroft nodded to his brother while reaching down to lift Siger up, examining the baby face to face. “Good morning, Siger,” he spoke directly to the child. “I am here to speak to your _pére_.”

His brother, seated in the leather chair he favoured, his long legs propped on the low table between the chair and the couch, waved a hand toward what John called “the clients’ chair”. Mycroft took the seat, examining the traces of drool on his hand, which Siger had pulled into his mouth and begun to gum enthusiastically. “Brother,” he greeted Sherlock.

“Mycroft,” came the reply.

Mycroft thought he could feel a hardness on the bottom of Siger’s mouth inside the gum itself, where the baby was now chewing on his finger. “Siger is teething?”

“So it would seem,” was the response.

The elder brother gave his attention to the small being in his arms, such a mixture of himself and his younger sibling. “Is he on the correct timetable for his first tooth?”

A grunt in reply. Then Sherlock deigned to comment, “All signs point to appropriate timing. There has been an inordinate amount of saliva, which does not coagulate after all. Acidic waste - we’ve had to be careful to prevent a rash. On the whole, however, Siger seems cheerful enough. He is still sleeping through the night.”

“You had a difficult time with teething,” Mycroft remembered aloud. He tried not to do that often. Better to save his pleasant and unpleasant memories of his beloved brother’s childhood for when Sherlock was being receptive.

That curl-laden head turned, eerily at the same time as Siger’s red-curled head, to look at Mycroft. Yes, they did look alike, father and son. Sherlock asked, “When did I start teething?”

Mycroft calculated. “At about nine months. You were a trifle behind. Mummy worried.”

A nod. Then, “As you remember things from my infancy, I would appreciate if you would write them down for me. For comparison.”

“Yes. Yes, of course. And to warn you of things to come. It would be my pleasure.” Mycroft had not meant to let that last bit out. Certainly not without sounding sarcastic.

It earned a quirky smile from his brother. “Of course.” Then, as Siger indicated he wished to get down from his perch on Mycroft’s knee, he added, “Thank you.”

Mycroft watched as Siger crawled rapidly and competently to where his father’s long legs stretched out above him. It was a change from when the baby had started to crawl, and had done so completely backward around the flat for hours. Grasping first the squat leg of the table, and then the fine material of Sherlock’s trouser legs, the baby hoisted himself up, to lean with a chubby fist in his mouth. “Mmmmm,” Siger explained to them from around his hand.

Sherlock had taken to interpreting for the boy; John had as well. Their translations were widely divergent. Mycroft had no opinion as to the accuracy of either. “Siger says ‘thank you’ as well.”

Mycroft answered gravely, “You are welcome, Siger.” Then he turned his attention to his brother. “Was there a reason you requested my presence?”

“Oh.” Sherlock waved his hand toward the kitchen. “Mrs. Hudson left a packet of biscuits for you. She’s been baking like a madwoman all morning.”

Surprise. Mycroft allowed a trifle to escape before containing it. “Mrs. Hudson left it for me? It does not contain any unnecessary additives derived from one of your experiments?”

The dark-haired detective reached down to steady his wobbling infant son. “No, they are simply biscuits. Homemade. We thought you might like some.”

The words meant something startling. “We? Were you baking with your landlady?” Mycroft asked.

That caused Sherlock to sit up, catching up his infant son as his long, thin bare feet met the floor. “Siger is being introduced to a variety of useful arts. He enjoyed playing with a small quantity of flour. The texture seemed to fascinate him. Now Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen appears as though it has not been dusted in years, and I did have to give Siger a bath. He looked like a small ghost. Of course I did not expose him to raw egg, or anything harmful. But we did share this morning with Mrs. Hudson. Baking is not much different from following a recipe with chemicals.”

“No,” Mycroft mused, “I suppose not. Thank you for the biscuits. I will stop and thank Mrs. Hudson.” Standing, he moved to his brother’s side, leaned down, and planted a gentle kiss on the baby’s pate. “Siger, thank you as well.”

The biscuits, which he shared with Greg that night, were delicious.


	3. December 3rd:  Not a Silent Night

It had been a long, sleepless night. Martha Hudson was familiar with the sound, the drawn-out whining cry of a baby in discomfort. Oh, not from Siger. At least, not until now. Usually Siger was cheerful, a sunny baby, taking after John for the most part in that aspect. Contented. Siger was a contented infant. Though perhaps, like John, he would be prone to ferocious black dog periods. In the seven months that Siger had been a part of her life they’d had colic, but not much else in the way of problems.

Even the teething had been going fairly well until last night. It had started with a thin complaining sort of sound that had eventually wound up into full blown crying. The landlady, and grandmother by adoption, had listened to footsteps in the flat above walking back and forth all night. They’d not taken Siger upstairs to his room, then. The creaking of the rocker had not echoed down the steps to where her door was open. If they had, he’d been brought back downstairs eventually when rocking had not worked. No one in 221 would be getting sleep tonight. A shame, really. But then, and Martha could find humor in this, this was what her two roomers had signed on for. This was part of being a parent.

Martha could tell it was John walking the floor. He had a different sort of pace, not quick and frenetic like her Sherlock. Considering that Sherlock slept much less frequently than the baby or the doctor, Mrs. Hudson wondered what he was up to.

John Watson was tired. Not exhausted. He had done longer shifts. Siger’s crying was wearing. As a medical professional, he supposed any infant crying for an extended period would drive an adult a little crazy - make them want to do something to prevent it. John was at the point where he just wanted the baby to stop, if only for a short time, a rest period for the baby before he picked up and continued. How was his son not losing his voice after this much crying? Even the colic had not gone on this long.

The soothers had not been a success. They were herbal soothers of a very different type from Mrs. Hudson's. They were still a bust. Sherlock had been keeping track, recording type, ingredients, ease of application, and their effect on Siger. Teething powder, gel, the freezer rings - they worked for a short period, or not at all. Frozen bagels, frozen carrot coins - just as effective, or ineffective. Whiskey, which Harry had told them John’s mother had used to soothe his gums while teething, was not an option. Neither the doctor, nor the man who valued brain development above all, were likely to try that.

About the only thing that seemed to help was John’s finger in Siger’s mouth. And walking. They’d taken it in turns, but Siger’s preference tonight seemed to be for his daddy.

Sherlock Holmes was fending off a spike of jealousy. Siger wanted John. Sherlock wanted to be the person who magically vanquished the dragon of teething for the small, red-haired infant that was so intrinsic to their lives now. The tall, dark-haired detective had to admit that John Watson was much more of a dragon slayer than he. When Siger needed a pirate, Sherlock would be right there. For now, though, he listened to John Watson humming quietly as he walked back and forth across their sitting room, his forefinger massaging gently at the space where two small teeth were waiting to erupt through Siger’s lower gum.

Sherlock made another mark on the open spreadsheet detailing Siger’s journal. The data on the laptop was current now, all up-to-date. He had no ongoing cases. A new work on the history of poisoning with heavy metals was waiting, but with the sounds that Siger had been making for hours, it was impossible to concentrate on that.

Sounds. The baby’s crying. John’s humming. Sherlock stood from the desk chair and moved to open his violin case. Tightening the bow strings, and rosining took little time, tuning and a scale to warm up even less. John was still humming in a monotone, but as his flatmate and partner and fellow parent began to play, that stopped. _Silent Night_ was a good beginning, Sherlock thought.

Siger’s tear-stained face was turned toward his _pére_ now, as was John’s tired visage, smiling slightly. The crying had stopped. For now. The violinist played a verse solo, before John began to sing, softly, along with the music. “Silent night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright.”

They performed a duet with every verse of that carol, John rocking in place on his feet with Siger on his hip, then moved into _Un flambeau, Jeanette, Isabelle_. John murdered French through the single verse he knew of the song, his plain voice low but tuneful.

Martha Hudson heard the violin begin upstairs. She was used to Sherlock playing in the night, though often it was the harsh scrape of the horsehair bow over discordant strings. Not tonight. Tonight she heard Christmas carols, played beautifully, if quietly. Mounting the stairs, clad in her nightdress and quilted robe, she peeked into the sitting room. Sherlock was standing by the window playing something from _Ceremony of Carols_. John Watson was in his chair, head back, eyes closed, legs sprawled, arms curled around Siger flat on his chest, that little rosebud of a mouth open and drooling. The pair of them were breathing deeply, evenly, sound asleep. 

There was not a pause or break in the music as Sherlock swung on into another piece. He raised an elegant eyebrow at his landlady, but did not speak. She did not either. Closing the door to 221B behind her, she creaked her way quietly down the stairs to her own bed. Carols carried her off to sleep, and traveled with her in the dreams that followed.


	4. Fourth of December:  the Au Pair

Albert Tran, medical student and _au pair_ to Siger Holmes, lived in the bedroom of 221C, which had been transformed into an office for the consultancy agency of Holmes and Watson. Some days that was a problem. Those were the days when noxious fumes filled the flat from whatever mixture of chemical and biological experiments that Sherlock Holmes decided were necessary for a current investigation. Or sometimes not so current. There were several that his boss had run to duplicate murders that had occurred decades and centuries before. 

There were also the times that Bert had forgotten not to put his sandwich in the refrigerator in the flat. There was a drawer upstairs in 221B that was labeled for him. John Watson had warned him about the items in the small laboratory that had formerly been a kitchen. Sometimes he thought he could get away with just sticking something in the convenient fridge, as there was nothing toxic in there _now_. The thing was, just because it was clean and empty _now_ did not mean that it would remain that way until the morning when he needed the food for lunch at school. Sherlock Holmes kept irregular hours.

Alice Brown, the office manager, was mostly accommodating about Bert studying in the meeting area. Sometimes he invited his friends from med school over for a study party. They’d order takeaway and stay up all night cracking the books. That was another issue. Some of the local restaurants refused to deliver - not that they wouldn’t bring takeaway to Baker Street, but specifically to 221. John explained that Bert did not want to eat the food from any place that wouldn’t deliver to Sherlock Holmes. Most of those were substandard, and the rest were criminals. Trouble was, those were usually the cheap restaurants. The ones that medical students could afford.

And then, there was the constant surveillance. Not that Bert was doing anything shady, or morally at issue. Sometimes, though, a guy liked to bring a girl back to his place. Bert liked to bring many girls back to his place. This was not an issue, as far as Sherlock, John, or Mrs. Hudson were concerned, so long as it did not interfere with his care of Siger, or insert said giggling girl into a…situation. There were odd occurrences ranging from Mrs. Hudson’s apartment, through 221C and up into 221B. Action and adventure, which - truth be told - Bert did not really mind.

Sometimes, though, he’d have to cut a romantic evening short when a crime happened unexpectedly. Either because it occurred in 221, or because he’d have to take Siger while John and Sherlock went out on a case. The girls who got mad? Well, he wasn’t interested in long-term.

Yes, there were downsides. But otherwise? He was not paying rent. He was being paid for a rewarding job. He’d certainly gotten some field experience in trauma medicine, and assisted John Watson from time to time. Not that those were things he could put on his resume exactly. He was making connections, because he was meeting people from all walks of life. And he got to watch Siger, who was a neat little kid, grow up. 

Of course, last night, when Siger was teething, wouldn’t sleep, and kept them all awake had been an aberration. Today the teeth were in, and his charge had gone back to a sunny, chirpy, happy little boy. Bert was taking him to Winter Wonderland in Hyde Park. It was free. They both needed to get out of the house. Bert, because his finals were over. He thought he had done pretty well on this morning's test, despite Siger’s crying the night before the parasitology exam. Siger because he had just gotten his first teeth. John and Sherlock had kept him mostly indoors for the past week, what with the recent cold snap.

Bert had permission to tell Siger, in his native _tiếng Việt_ , exactly what he thought of all this Christmas stuff too. That had come from Sherlock. John had asked if Bert needed some holiday time to spend with his family. Bert had politely said that was not necessary, at which point Sherlock had told John, “Don’t be absurd, John. Albert is Buddhist. He doesn’t celebrate Christmas.” Bert had grown up in a country that did celebrate it, though. Most of his friends did, no matter what religious belief they followed. Bert had no issues with Christmas. He just did not choose to celebrate it.

Watching this pair’s dynamic was always interesting. John spent more time thinking of what others thought. John was polite. Sherlock was blunt. Bert appreciated his honesty. Bert had not had to be on the wrong side of it. He had watched the tall detective shred someone else’s ego to quivering bits. Bert did not want to be on the wrong side of Sherlock Holmes.

Bert told John not to worry about it. He was perfectly happy to celebrate their holiday however they wished. He had absolutely no problem with receiving presents at any time of the year. In fact, he’d gotten some books for Siger’s first Christmas. But since his primary reason for getting a job in the first place was to avoid his family, time off to go home defeated that purpose. Bert was perfectly happy telling his parents that he was needed over the Western holidays. It kept him from having to wash dishes at the restaurant. He’d be home for Tet. Until then, showing Siger Christmas through other eyes was fun. He hoped that Siger would remember this, remember him, when he grew up.

Bundling the cheery little baby into the pram, looking down into those watchful eyes that saw everything, Bert was sure that he would.


	5. A Fifth of December: a visit to the mortuary

“You will be fine, Sherlock. This isn’t the first time that you’ve been home alone with the baby?" John asked in consternation.

“Yes. I am certain the two of us, abandoned by you, will be fine.” Sherlock Holmes caught his image in the mirror, smoothed his hair and shot his sleeves.

Shaking his head, the shorter blond man finished shaving. “I have a date. With an ex-exotic dancer. Bert told us weeks ago that he has to present tonight at the college. Alice is the reason I have a date to begin with. You are welcome to come with us, by the way. I did mention that before. Your reply when I asked was…”

“No!” Having determined that he looked presentable, the tall, slender man leaned in the doorway to the bathroom and watched John Watson rinse off shaving cream, and check his cheeks for smoothness. “I don’t see why you need to go, either.” That was muttered mutinously.

“Invited by our business manager to hear her chorale. Going to hear Alice with the choir, and Mrs. Hudson is coming with me.” John repeated those words, as he had said them several times before.

A small, pajama-clad being, bumbling across the floor, bumped past the doorway, past Sherlock’s long legs, and into John’s shorter ones. “Hallo, Siger.” John smiled down. “Exploring?”

“Bbbbbbbbb,” bubbled the little rosebud of a mouth, then “Pppppbbbt.” John had taught him how to perform raspberries this week. John found it hysterical; Sherlock, less so. The baby’s sticky hand grasped the fabric of John’s trousers and began the chore of pulling himself up to a kneeling, then standing position. Siger had discovered that the toilet was not a solid structure for assistance in standing. The tub was too smooth, and he’d bonked his head earlier when he slipped off of its enamel. 

John looked up to his partner, an eyebrow cocked, and waited expectantly. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock leaned down to pick up the miniature Holmes, shifting him onto a nicely-clad hip. “It’s not as though I am incapable of caring for Siger,” the larger Holmes started. “It’s that you rarely allow me the opportunity to take Siger out.”

The look went from fondness at seeing the two heads close together, dark curls and baby-fine red curls, to sternness. “You may take Siger out according to the guidelines. No crime scenes.”

“Of course I wouldn’t take him to crime scenes,” snapped the genius. “I was the one who told you we were not going to endanger his development that way.”

“Since I follow the same rules,” John reminded the other parent loftily, “I was merely reminding you of them.”

A long thin hand wafted through the air in a negligent wave. “Bbbbbbbbb,” and Siger’s much smaller, plumper hand waved about enthusiastically in mimicry.

With the baby tucked on his right hip, dominant hand tight around his waist securing him, Sherlock used his left to gently reach forward and wipe a small amount of the lather from behind John’s ear. Eyes closed in response, cheek pressed to that hand, John Watson hummed. 

There was a long series of sounds from Siger that Sherlock interpreted for his partner. “That’s right, Siger. John will be late for his date if he continues to dawdle about in the loo.”

“Right.” John leaned up to kiss the tall git, then the short, happy child before brushing past to collect his blazer. He checked his wallet for cash, and the tickets, before saying, “Later! Have fun!” and running downstairs to collect Mrs. Hudson.

Alice Brown had invited them all. She had been a bit doubtful about Siger attending. “He won’t enjoy it, John.” As if it were not evident that a seven-month-old infant would not sit still for an amateur Christmas choral production. “Come to that,” John had said, “I’m not certain that Sherlock can sit for it either. Unless you’ve got someone being murdered onstage?”

But no. There was to be no murder that night. Mrs. Hudson, who had gotten close to their business manager, was keen to go. So John was taking her.

“Well,” said Sherlock to Siger in the emptiness of the flat, “we are bachelors tonight, Siger. Shall we go out for a bit?”

Out turned out to be Bart’s mortuary. Molly was working tonight. Sherlock had discussed with the mortuary assistant (read: lectured her) on what types of items Siger would be allowed to see in labs. That Sherlock had neglected to notify the doctor that he and Siger would be arriving was par for the course. The mortuary's sole nod to the season was a wreath on the outer door to the lab. Molly's desk, though, had a small Saint Nicholas mug filled with cold, congealed coffee, and a holiday sweater on the back of her desk chair.

“Sherlock?” Molly’s surprised voice greeted him from the electronic microscope on the lab table. “You brought Siger?”

Siger had, indeed, been brought. He was secure in his carrier, kicking his legs as he looked about him. He was wearing a babygrow that matched the detective’s royal blue shirt. Sherlock thought it went well with Siger’s hair, and did not clash with Sherlock’s coloring either. “We’re by ourselves for the evening, aren’t we, Siger? John and Mrs. Hudson are off to a concert. Do you have those slices of liver that I asked you for?”

The diseased liver samples were provided. There was a problem. Siger wanted to get intimately involved in the process of examining the pieces. Sherlock Holmes was not a fool. But he had expected to get _something_ done tonight. “Molly?” He gave a winning smile as he looked over at her. Looked over Siger’s head at her, actually.

“You’ll have to wait until my break, Sherlock.” It was amusing how adamant her tone had become.

“Of course,” agreed the younger Holmes brother. Siger had a very pleasant effect on women, he had noticed. Molly had been no different when they’d been in with John. If you think that Sherlock Holmes might possibly be planning on skiving off leaving the baby in Molly’s hands - not to anywhere beyond the microscope, you understand - just over to the lab table, then you might just be correct.

Molly never gave him the opportunity. Oh, it was a delightful visit with her. Or so Sherlock thought John might think so. The mortuary attendant was processing the victims of a traffic smash, preparing them for autopsy. No time for babysitting, and she let the detective know that. She was happy to hear about Siger’s teething, asked about their plans for the holidays, and made some suggestions for toys for the baby.

Mike Stamford arrived with coffees for all - well, not for Siger - and two sugars for Sherlock’s. Mike was happy to hold Siger, as his own children were older now and he missed the infant stage. “Covering a night class for a colleague with the flu. Molly texted me and asked for coffee. I have about twenty minutes before class starts.”

Siger examined Mike’s round face. “Bbbbbbbb,” he told the doctor.

Mike proceeded to tell Siger about his own children, and some of their adventures, while Sherlock frantically scanned a few slices of liver. At the end of fifteen minutes, Mike handed the baby back to the detective, gave a wink to Molly, and headed off to his classroom.

Sherlock gave Siger a thorough explanation of what he was looking for in the sliced liver, and after a change and a “Thank you” that surprised Molly, bundled the baby up to leave. 

John enjoyed the choir’s performance. It was cheerful music, and did not require a good deal of thought. Probably Sherlock would not have found it stimulating, but the whole aura of the event was pleasing to John, and to Mrs. Hudson. Alice was thrilled that they were there, and invited them to the after-party, which was a fruit punch and Christmas biscuit affair. John and Mrs. Hudson agreed that the sweets provided were nothing compared to Mrs. Hudson’s own. Mrs. Hudson assured John that she was teaching Sherlock, and would teach Siger, how to make all her best recipes.

They caught a taxi back to Baker Street. It was quiet when they closed the front door. Mrs. Hudson said goodnight and went into A. John took off his coat and mounted the stairs to his home. The fairy lights were on, glowing and twinkling. The kettle clicked off as John walked into the flat. “A cup of tea would be nice, John,” came the voice of his flatmate. The flatmate was stretched out along the couch, a book on heavy metal poisoning in one hand, the other behind that dark-haired head. The baby monitor was on the coffee table, and there were sounds of soft baby snores emanating from the speaker.

“You and Siger have a nice evening?” John asked as he hung up his parka before handling the tea.

“Busy, somewhat productive. Siger heard about Mike Stamford’s rather ordinary children,” was the answer before another request: “Some of Mrs. Hudson’s biscuits too, if you please?”

“You went to visit Mike?” John commented as he turned on the CD player. Some popular secular carols, he rather thought, after the religious ones he’d already heard tonight.

“Nnnno.” That was said absently. “We went to the mortuary to examine the liver slices from that poisoning case. It was the mother-in-law. Not the Christmas biscuits, but I’ve informed Lestrade that they should examine the flavoring in her kitchen. Rat-poisoned cake, I rather think.”

“And at Christmas time too!” was John’s over horrified exclaimation.

That got a look. A severe one. “It doesn’t follow, John. Ordinary people eat cake at all times of the year. My brother does it constantly.”

John laughed and brought in the tea.


	6. December 6th:  the Feast of Saint Nicholas

“John, today is the Feast of Saint Nicholas. What are we doing to celebrate it?”

John Watson lowered his paper to examine the tall, pajama-clad oddity standing in the kitchen doorway. Siger was in his swing in the sitting room; John could hear it clicking, could hear Siger burbling and banging a toy against the plastic tray in front. Sherlock Holmes was looking down at him expectantly. “What?” John asked.

The silk robe flared out as a kitchen chair was twirled about, and his partner straddled it, still watching the older man. “The Feast of Saint Nicholas, John. An aspect of Christmas. What are we doing to celebrate it?”

Folding the paper neatly, John took a piece of toast from his plate and thoughtfully spooned some jam onto it. “Sherlock -” this was said carefully “- you do realize that we don’t have to celebrate every aspect of Christmas, right? From every culture?” He took a bite, then another to finish the piece. 

“Why would we not celebrate this day?” Sherlock rested his chin on arms crossed atop the back of the chair. “Would this not be the day to take Siger to meet Father Christmas?”

John selected another slice of buttered toast and reached for the dipper to drizzle some honey down the center. Holding it out, he asked, “Do we want Siger to meet Father Christmas? Did you want a photograph of him with Saint Nicholas? We never did discuss this, did we?”

The piece of toast was accepted and chewed thoughtfully. “ _Père Noël_ should come on Christmas Eve, or Christmas Day. I don’t know how Siger would react to a large bearded man dressed in red fur holding him on his lap for a picture. Unless it was Mycroft. Have you ever seen Mycroft with a beard?”

John gave a snort, then took a sip of tea. “I’m having a hard time picturing it,” he admitted.

“It looks,” Sherlock muttered, “odd. Particolored. Mostly red. But not all.” He accepted the cup that John poured for him. “Which is why he refuses to grow one.”

“What do you look like in a beard?” John asked, smiling, as he poured more tea in his own cup.

“Ghastly,” Sherlock stated. “Never grow a beard, John. I prefer my doctors clean-shaven. Why? Do you want me to grow facial hair?”

“Not keen on the idea of kissing you with a beard, Sherlock,” John pointed out, “or a mustache.”

“Your reticence for embracing someone with a beard certainly means you will be unlikely to run off with Father Christmas. I take comfort in that.” A small smile tilted that cupid’s-bow of a mouth.

John gave the man a pointed look. “Only one man interests me, Sherlock Holmes. Only one person that I wish to spend my life with. Well, other than Siger at this point. And any other child we have in the future. So stop fishing for compliments.”

Sherlock made a face. “Is that what I am doing?”

“Drink your tea,” John told him.

They sat in companionable silence as John pushed slices of buttered and honeyed toast across to Sherlock, refilling his teacup as it was emptied. John finished his breakfast and tidied plates, knives, and cups into the sink for washing. “Ready to discuss Christmas plans?” 

“I have no idea how to plan for this,” Sherlock complained as he followed John into the sitting room.

Siger looked up from where he was swinging and greeted his fathers. Waving a toy crocodile about, he spoke at length. John smiled at Sherlock. “He says that he’s not got any plans for today. But he would like a bit of rusk.”

The bit of rusk being obtained and presented, it was accepted with an unintelligible speech of thanks.

Sherlock sat on the couch next to John. “I would like to do ridiculous things with Siger. I would like to visit Winter Wonderland. Eat hot chestnuts from a vendor in the street. Sing carols.”

“Would you go to the Christmas Eve children’s service with us?” John asked.

There was a grumble. “Even that. With you and Siger.”

“Do you want a tree for the flat?” was the next question.

A smile appeared, although Sherlock was not looking at John, nor Siger. “Yes. I think so.”

John laughed. “Okay, what about Christmas cards?”

That earned a direct look. One eyebrow raised, Sherlock said, “Let’s not go overboard, John.”

“Okay, no cards. But pictures with Father Christmas are acceptable?” John stretched his arms, leaving one behind Sherlock on the back of the sofa.

“I expect that Mycroft is going to try to bribe me for that one,” Sherlock admitted.

“Mycroft aside, do you want us to take Siger for a picture with Father Christmas?” John asked directly. 

Sherlock hummed and leaned against the doctor. “You know, I think I might. John, is being a parent turning my mind to mush and illogic? Is this what it’s like to have a tiny little brain?”

John blew a raspberry, which was echoed by Siger in his swing. John smiled happily, and Siger laughed, pleased. John heard Sherlock laugh, and joined in with his own giggle. “ _My_ tiny little brain thinks that perhaps today will be a bit much for pictures with Saint Nick. I don’t want to have to fight the crowds. We’ll plan for another time, yeah?”

Sherlock nodded agreement and reached for the stack of manila folders stored above Siger’s reach. John lifted Siger from the swing, pulled the basket of soft, squeaking toys from behind the couch onto Harry’s blanket, and after checking to ensure the gates were up, released Siger to explore freely before returning to his place by his partner. Sherlock handed a file to John, opened his own, and they spent the morning agreeably working their way through the pile, Siger busily playing at their feet.


	7. December 7th:  Stockings

“Just stick it on the mantlepiece. John and Sherlock are not formal.” Greg Lestrade pointed at Mycroft with his bottle of Bass.

The look he received from Mycroft Holmes had reduced lesser men to jelly. Greg tried again: “Well, Sherlock won’t care. John likes Christmassy things. He’ll most likely be pleased.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and pointed out, “Aside from his protective nature asserting itself?”

“Protecting Siger from a stocking?” Greg laughed.

“Protecting Sherlock from me, Greg,” Mycroft huffed.

Greg Lestrade shrugged. “Go with formal, then,” he said.

Formal it was. The stocking was presented to Siger’s parents, the box prettily wrapped. Sherlock examined it. “Something cloth. Siger has more clothing than he knows what to do with, Mycroft, much of which you gave him. You believe I will not approve of whatever this is; I can tell that by the wrappings and the formality of the offering. Go ahead and open it, John.”

When opened, the box contained a handsome, brocaded stocking in old gold, green, and burgundy - not the type to be worn, a decoration instead - with Siger’s name embroidered across the cuff. “A Christmas stocking?” John asked.

“To start a tradition for the boy,” offered Mycroft.

Sherlock was examining his brother. “Alright,” the younger man sniffed. “But don’t show up with a Christmas tree or any other such nonsense. John and I will determine what else will be used to celebrate. And when.”

They showed the item to Siger, who immediately stuffed it into his mouth. “You had to know that was going to happen, Mycroft,” John pointed out as he retrieved the item, and went to find a hook to hang it upon the mantlepiece. He centered the ornament between the skull - which had now been adorned with a bit of evergreen - and the dagger holding down Sherlock’s documents.

It looked well enough there. Mrs. Hudson noticed it when she came in to clean. Not their housekeeper, and they did make an effort to tidy, but Martha Hudson took on dusting once in a while as well. John had been better since Siger’s arrival, but still and all she liked to keep her hand in to get rid of the dust. She thought it looked lonely, hanging there all by itself on the mantle. 

Sherlock and John returned from Tesco’s with milk, formula, replacement emergency nappies - they’d used up the disposables on a jaunt around London with Siger - and takeaway from the Indian restaurant on the way. “What is that?” Sherlock stared darkly at the fireplace while peeling Siger from his bunting.

“What?” John asked as he came into the sitting room with dishes and cutlery. “Stockings? Mrs. Hudson must have put them there.”

The two red plush stockings were about the same size as Siger’s, with white plush cuffs. One faced to the left, and had “John” stitched across its cuff. The other faced to the right, as did Siger’s, and was labeled “Sherlock”. The two men sighed in time. “At least,” Sherlock pointed out, “they don’t say ‘Daddy’ and ‘Pére’.”

“Where did she find a left-handed one?” John demanded. “It looks as though mine is attacking yours. Or the pair of yours are attacking mine.”

“Mycroft will have a canary comparing them to Siger’s.” A slight smile appeared on Sherlock’s face. “I say we keep them!”

John laughed, and went back to dishing out the curry while Siger and his other father went upstairs to get changed for the evening.

The next day, as Sherlock was waiting for Albert to get back from classes, he found himself staring at the offending red hosiery. Using John’s laptop, the detective did some research on some exceedingly odd websites - he found that Christmas tended to inspire those of a crafty nature to become indulgent to their decorative desires. Then leaving Siger with Albert, who had just run up the seventeen steps, went out to make some purchases.

John got back from his shift at the surgery tired - it was flu season, after all - and more than a little bit hungry. He could hear noise up the stairs, meeting Bert on the way down and out for a date. Mrs. Hudson’s door was tightly closed. John vaguely remembered that their landlady had gone to visit her sister for several days. “What’s up?” he asked as he walked into the kitchen, where Siger was seated in the high chair, and Sherlock moved around like a very large grasshopper.

“Siger is making a stocking for _Grand-Mère_ ,” it was announced.

There was a bright green felt stocking on the table, topped by a white felt cuff stitched to the top and folded down. “What exactly are you doing?” John demanded.

Sherlock, his long thin fingers guiding Siger’s chubby, stubby ones, placed the baby’s hand in a pile of gold sparkles, and then red ones, having just dipped it into white glue. Siger looked to be interested in tasting the mess on his fingers. Sherlock prevented that, guiding him, placing his tiny palm down, fingers out, on the center of the green stocking. Pulling it back carefully, the glitter stayed, a perfect small handprint.

“Sherlock!” John fussed, grabbing at Siger’s hand. The baby wriggled, getting the mélange of glitter and glue all over John’s hand in return.

“It’s not toxic, John.” Sherlock drew himself up, affronted.

John huffed. “It’s a mess.”

There was a quiet laugh; then, Sherlock wrapped a cloth around Siger’s sticky hand. He grabbed up John’s hand, covered now with glue and glitter, and pressed his own long-fingered hand to match the shorter man’s squarer palm. “...and palm to palm is holy palmer’s kiss,” he quoted in his deep voice.

“Poetry, Sherlock? That you didn’t delete? Where is that from?” John found himself smiling up into the eyes that always fascinated him.

“William Shakespeare. Romeo and Juliet. Two complete idiots from families of them.” The tall detective looked down at John from under that mop of dark hair.

John stared at him, mouth slightly open. Sherlock took John’s wrist with his left hand, much as he had done with Siger’s, and pressed it down on the top of the felt stocking, above the tiny perfect print. John’s was not a complete outline, but it was identifiable as a handprint. Below Siger’s mark Sherlock placed his own right hand, sticky with glue and glitter from touching John.

The two men’s marks were nowhere near perfect. But they cradled the infant mark, red and golden glitter shining against the cheerful green felt. “Would you clean off Siger please, John?” Sherlock asked as he took up a toothpick and began to use the glitter and glue to mark “Grand-Mère” across the white cuff.

“No, no. no!” he heard John muttering at their son, cleaning the no doubt infuriating bits of glitter and water-soluble glue from tiny fingers. “Sherlock, he’s probably eaten some of this. Thank God it’s not in his hair.”

“Nontoxic, John. Water-soluble.” Taking the piece of cloth up, the man placed it on top of the refrigerator to dry. Siger would not be able to access it there. 

Later, as they lay together, waiting to fall asleep, John admitted, “It…the stocking…looked nice. It was a good thought, Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson will love it.”

There was a muffled grumble, then a shuffling around, until Sherlock was draped over his partner. John heard that baritone in his ear: “Then move not. While my prayer’s effect I take.” Lips pressed against his, warm and clever. John thought that, perhaps, he could do with a bit more Shakespeare.  
…

In the end it was John who added the last few stockings to the mantlepiece. He was waiting for Albert and Siger, who were to meet them for yet another trip to Hyde Park. They would meet Sherlock at the park entrance. A shop window was decorated with stockings, Christmas balls, and Saint Nicholases of all sorts. What caught John’s eye was a delicate stocking of brown brocade. It was an intricate pattern, not a color you’d normally associate with Christmas, trimmed with gold thread. Very pretty. John found himself thinking, _I should get that for Alice Brown._

Next thing he knew, the doctor was inside the shop staring at a wall of Christmas stockings in a variety of brocades, the brown stocking in his hand. _Not the oriental pattern for Bert,_ John thought. _Something different._ He chose a very masculine blue and cream. Finally, after much deliberation, he reached up and took one last down.

Greg Lestrade stopped by the flat to pick up John on his way to the local, while Mycroft conferred with Sherlock on matters of state. 221B was looking quite seasonal, he thought. Checking for Mycroft’s gift, he saw a long row of stockings. From left to right they were Sherlock’s red plush, Siger’s, John’s match to Sherlock’s, a hand-decorated green stocking obviously made for Mrs. Hudson - cute that it had Siger’s handprint on it - a beautiful brown stocking with 'Alice’ embroidered across the cuff, a blue and cream brocade labeled ‘Albert’, and a large purple and gold paisley item with ‘Mycroft and Greg’ sewn in small, but fine letters at the top. Oh. Oh!

“Don’t you like it, Greg?” came John’s voice from behind him.

Greg Lestrade licked his lip nervously. “It’s not that I don’t like it,” he said softly. “It’s just that...” There was a pause. “I haven’t told my crew at work that I’m seeing someone. Let alone a man.”

An equally soft expletive from John. “Sorry, mate, I didn’t think of that. I’ll take it down. You can take it home and put it up there.”

“No.” That came out more strongly. “No, leave it up. I like it. It suits.” Greg suddenly realized how silent the flat had gotten. Turning, he realized that Mycroft and Sherlock had been standing behind them. Sherlock was making the universal gesture indicating the urge to vomit.

Mycroft? Mycroft was looking at him with huge eyes. Greg decided he liked when Mycroft lost composure. It was a good look on him. “Greg?” Mycroft could not seem to finish his question.

Greg reached forward and ran the side of his finger down the taller man’s jaw. He gave a wry smile. “It suits us. Don’t you think, Mycroft?”

A slow nod, and then, “Yes. I do indeed.” What more needed to be said?


	8. December 8th: the Post

The post arrived regularly. Just as regularly it was filled with circulars, bills, and professional enquiries for Sherlock Holmes. John Watson rarely received mail, except on occasion from acquaintances from his years in the service. The main time for those was Christmas. He’d also started getting Christmas cards from friends of his parents when his blog became popular and news of his working with Sherlock Holmes had gotten published in the papers.

The only personal mail that Sherlock received was the occasional postcard from Mrs. Hudson, and those, of course, were addressed to John as well. A consequence of this was that Sherlock only checked the post when he was expecting something he’d ordered online.

John regularly brought Mrs. Hudson her post, before taking the business mail down to Alice Brown in the office in 221C. “Are these Christmas cards, Alice?” he asked the short blonde woman who was slitting envelopes with a letter opener that had been used in a murder three decades before. As Sherlock had told John when the consulting detective had presented it to their office manager, it had been cleaned thoroughly by the murderer. And the case had been solved long ago. No reason not to use a perfectly good letter opener.

Alice, by that time in their acquaintance, had merely rolled her eyes. She answered John’s question without pausing in her constant slit, slit, slit. “Yes. Businesses send them. I didn’t send them out for the agency. Sherlock was pointed about that.”

“You’ve put them up on the wall there,” John observed.

The business manager shrugged. “It’s good for our vendors to see them when they come in.”

John hummed, going from card to card, reading the names of the senders. Alice made a surprised noise. “This one’s not for the business.”

“Is it for me? I thought I sorted all of those out,” John turned toward her. “For Sherlock then, or Mrs. Hudson?”

Alice shook her head. “It’s for Siger Holmes.”

The card was not a personal one. It was sent out by the church where Siger had been baptised. John stuck it up on the dresser in Siger’s room anyway. He thought it looked cheerful, the glowing baby in a manger, watched by a large number of improbably wooly sheep. John assumed that all of the children on the cradle roll received them. A little child would be excited to have a Christmas card addressed solely to him or her self.

“Why haven’t you put it downstairs with your cards? On the bookshelf?” Sherlock asked him from the doorway. The mantle was full, and so John had placed his cards on a book shelf, high enough to be out of Siger's reach.

“Just thought,” John answered as he changed the baby, dropping a cloth nappy over his bits to prevent a face full of urine from a suddenly freed Siger, “that it’s Siger’s first Christmas card. Seemed right for it to have a special place.”

There was a grumble of “Sentiment” from the doorway. When John picked up the freshly nappied Siger to choose a onesie, their flatmate was gone. John nattered on to Siger as he selected something based entirely on the cuteness of the cartoon train across the tum. He’d never realized that there was such a thing as bespoke onesies.

When the pair made their way down the stairs to the kitchen, the third member of their family was lying stretched out on the couch, fingers steepled below his chin. John puttered about setting up the kettle for tea, putting on toast, and mixing up rice cereal for Siger who was busy inhaling his bottle of formula. They’d given up on breast milk after three months. Siger seemed to be thriving on the formula and cereal and pureed meat and veg. 

Poking his head through to the sitting room, John asked, “You joining us for breakfast?” John thought it might be good for Sherlock to eat with his son this morning.

The long-legged man unfolded himself from the sofa and strode into the kitchen to take his place at the table. Tea, toast, and a pot of honey were set in front of him. John slipped the small spoon of white, library paste-like rice into Siger’s mouth, over the two teeth that had mercifully finally arrived. “Bbbbbbbbbbbmm,” Siger told John.

"No raspberries while eating, Siger," John said sternly. John had given up on telling Siger the rice or oat cereal was tasty. Sherlock’s sarcastic commentary had made him laugh, but that near hysteria had made it difficult to get the spoon into the baby’s mouth. After Siger complained, John found alternative commentary to keep Siger’s attention during breakfast or other meals. On days that Sherlock fed the baby, it was guaranteed that he’d explain the most recent breakthrough in a current case. John tended to speak about nutrition, if he could not go on about taste.

Sherlock took a mouthful of honey straight from the spoon. “Molly’s Christmas card usually arrives the second week of December?”

That got John’s attention. “Yeah, I guess so. Usually.” Sherlock was ignoring the odd look directed toward him, and ostentatiously dripping honey on a slice of toast.

“You going to tell me what’s on your mind, Sherlock?” John asked. He fed Siger another spoonful, after first pretending to eat it himself - to Siger’s great amusement.

Sherlock chewed. John raised an eyebrow. Swallowing, the dark-haired man said carefully, “Molly’s card will be addressed to both of us. Possibly to Siger as well. Molly is the type of person who would put a cat’s name on a card if one lived with us.”

“Yeah,” John replied. “I hadn’t thought of that, but yeah.” He waited for Sherlock to put his thoughts in words.

“I’d like,” Sherlock said slowly, “for all of the Christmas cards to be together. On the shelf where you have your cards.”

John’s understanding was illuminated. “You’d like the cards to be together,” he said, nodding. “I’m sorry, Sherlock, I wasn’t thinking about that.”

Sherlock’s reluctance was obvious. “I realize that the majority of the cards are yours, John. But we’ve always put Molly’s with those.”

Siger inserted his opinion, “Lalalalalalalala,” grabbing at the long-handled baby spoon in John’s hand.

John gave a sigh. “Of course, we’ll put the family cards down on the bookshelf.” Looking directly at his lover he said more forcefully, “The cards for our _family_ should be together.” Standing, he rinsed, then dropped Siger’s empty bowl and spoon into the sink - rice cereal left to dry attained the consistency of cement - then moved around to behind Sherlock in his chair. Reaching round, arms enclosing his partner, he pressed against the smooth cheek before giving a quick kiss. “We are a family, Sherlock. We’ll put the cards together.”

Those dark curls leaned back against the jumper-clad chest. “Siger and I can do that while you finish your breakfast, John. If you like?”

“Right!” John straightened and took his place at the table. “Off you go then!” He busied himself with piling jam onto toast, and fixing the strong black tea to his taste. Listening to Sherlock pick up their son, wiping the messy face clean of rice cereal, and tromping up the stairs to Siger’s room, John found himself smiling.


	9. December 9th:  Consequences

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He could tell her feelings were hurt. She worked hard not to allow that, to keep them walled off. There were very few people that she trusted, and with good reason. Lestrade knew she’d been damaged when she came to work for him, but then, who wasn’t?

Turning to look sideways a moment, their eyes met, before he turned his back to the street to give attention to the traffic. His sergeant went on, “I saw that stocking in Holmes’s flat. You’re the Greg, aren’t you? John put that up. The Freak would never get your name right. Or he’d put Lestrade - not that I could picture him putting up stockings with family names to begin with.”

“You’re not going to ask me who Mycroft is?” There was humour in the Detective Inspector’s voice.

Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan grumbled, “I know who Mycroft is. He’s the man in the black sedan, whose driver brings him to crime scenes. The one you go over to talk to. So, he’s related to Sherlock Holmes, is he?”

Greg Lestrade considered. Sally Donovan was his sergeant, and they were close. Not "cry on your shoulder" close. They were "watch each other’s back" close. Greg knew that even when Sally had believed the worst about Sherlock, she’d stood with him to support the cases they’d worked on. Together and on their own time they’d gone through every situation in which Sherlock had helped New Scotland Yard. Eventually she’d been convinced that something was going on behind the scenes that targeted the Freak. How could you not, with Moriarty getting off scot-free, after being caught red-handed in the Tower? Someone hated Sherlock Holmes more than she did. Amazing.

Sally still resented Sherlock Holmes. She loathed even more that someone had used her as a weapon. She was a British Bulldog, one of the new mixed-breed that still had the tenacity to hold on to the end.

It was good that she and Anderson were not in touch any longer. Philip’s transition to Believer had been the death knell for their unhealthy relationship. Two unhappy people, damaged and hurting, looking for short-term love. Greg wished some happiness for her. “His name is Mycroft Holmes,” he told her.

“Closely related.” She sounded bitter as she asked, “How long has this been going on?”

“A little over a year,” Greg admitted.

Donovan nodded. The next comment was not bitter, more understanding. “You’ve been less tense. I thought it was because Holmes… the F… Sherlock had gotten that business manager and was making the paperwork less of a hell.”

Greg laughed. “That too.”

“So...” she started, then stopped. 

Greg knew what question she wanted to ask. It was inevitable. Well, best to get it over with.

“Mycroft is not the reason I broke up with my wife. It’s not because I’m interested in men either. I’m… not exactly. I didn’t leave my wife for another man. You know that she was cheating on me.”

“I know that Sherlock told you she was cheating on you. At the worst possible times. In public. It was cruel, Greg.” There was a pause, because Greg really could not disagree with that, could he? Then Sally burst out, “I can’t believe he’s been allowed care of a child. John, maybe, but even he’s a little suspect!”

Greg hummed. Not in agreement, though he could see her point. He said, “Siger is Sherlock’s son. The mother is not interested in caring for him. With John and Sherlock he has two loving parents.”

“Dimmock said they won’t be bringing him to any crime scenes. Word is, though, that they’ve taken him to the mortuary.” There was a world of curiosity in those words.

“Sherlock’d be the one to explain it. Something to do with neural development. Mirror neurons. Trauma effects on an infant’s brain. They’ve taken him to the lab, but not anywhere he’d see the corpses. You won’t see Siger at crime scenes unless something is very, very wrong.” It had been seven months, and Greg had yet to see them break that rule.

Sally commented thoughtfully, “John’s influence, I bet.”

“No, actually,” Greg corrected her, “Sherlock’s rule. Come on, Sally. You know how he values his enormous important brain.”

“I know he thinks a lot of his,” came a mumble. “But then he pollutes it with drugs. I honestly thought he’d be dead by now.” Then she asked, “So what does Mycroft Holmes do for a living? With the car and driver and bespoke suits and all?”

“Minor official in the British Government.” That phrase was getting easier to say. Greg added, “I think their father was a diplomat. Posh upbringing. No title that I’m aware of, though.”

Sally’s grunt of understanding preceded a long silence. The detective inspector thought she was considering her own history - not an easy one, begun with abuse and then hard work to make something of herself. 

Greg had his own monsters to deal with. He was well aware that each had to deal with his or her own. Mycroft certainly had them, and Greg was not ever going to be in a position to fix things. Just as he hadn’t been able to do that for Sherlock. But then he wasn’t with the tall, red-headed, overworking git to change him. Mycroft was certainly careful not to try to change Greg. Not that attempting to change Greg Lestrade had worked for the ex-Mrs. Lestrade.

Sometimes he wondered about John and Sherlock. But again, better not to go there. Sally was speaking again. “I guess we can’t choose who we’re related to.”

“Nope,” Greg agreed. He had a few barmy relatives as well. Some might call him mad, certainly, for his support of Sherlock Holmes.

“I just...” Sally was working it out in her head, how to say this to him. He could see that. “I wish that you had trusted me, sir.”

“I haven’t told anyone, Sally. Not even my family. And I did take you there knowing what was on the mantlepiece. You’re the first to know about it, but I’d prefer not to make it public. Lord, the expression on my face when I saw that stocking on the mantle, it must have been priceless. Then the expression on John’s when he realized he’d outed me. Hysterical!” Greg laughed, inviting Sally to join him. 

She did. “I can imagine!” she said with wonder. “He really wasn’t thinking about it, was he?”

“Nope,” Greg said again, before saying with satisfaction, “Just thinking about doing something nice for his family for Christmas.”

Sally made a noise. Then she said slowly, “I guess that’s all we can ask, isn’t it? For people to care enough to do stupid little things like that?”

Greg agreed. “Next time, I’ll make sure you get to meet Siger. I know you’re not a baby person, but he’s a good kid.”

“Thanks,” Sally Donovan answered. “I think I’d like to meet your nephew.”

It was a new way of thinking about the boy. Greg decided he liked it.


	10. December 10:  Marzipan

_What am I doing here?_ John thought as he looked about the chic grey walls decorated with studio portraits of sweets. Candied fruits, crystallised flowers, hand-dipped chocolates, and petit fours were offered temptingly. The stalwart doctor straightened his posture, and brought his attention back to the round little man seated across from the doctor in the chrome-and-leather - of a darker grey than the walls - chairs of the office. No desk in this room, although a sideboard held tiny angular crystal decanters and tumblers displayed artistically. 

“Now, Dr. Watson, you wish to have a single ornament created, in marzipan, in time for Christmas Eve. Do you have a sketch or photograph of the item you wish the ornament to be modeled on?” The man’s voice was high-pitched and overly sweet.

John was fairly sure that anything the man had on offer was out of his league so far as price was concerned. He’d stopped at the boutique on a whim after an afternoon spent searching through patisseries, chocolatiers, and sweet shops. The young man at the counter had looked at his rumpled Christmas jumper with a jaundiced eye to start. Upon hearing the doctor’s name - though why on earth John had felt compelled to give it, he did not know - John had been ushered into “the Office, Dr. Watson, please!”

John said patiently, “A standard umbrella. The type, or rather stereotype, of what a man from the city would carry.”

Mr. Agamemnon or Hector, or whatever his name was, seemed to find the idea curious. Leaning forward, a greedy expression on his face, and the round man was almost gleeful with his question: “This is for a case, isn’t it? Is it the piece of evidence in a murder?”

Oh. If it weren’t old hat by now, and what Sherlock called “tedious”, John would almost hate to disappoint the man. At least to begin with. Mildly he informed the man that, no, it was not for a case. That he was looking for a personal gift for an old friend - of course describing Mycroft as an old friend was sketchy at best - whose trademark was the umbrella he carried. Was an umbrella made of marzipan possible?

Having dispelled the mystery, John was no longer an object of interest. Yes, yes, anything was possible for a price. An enormous price. John had to swallow hard at the sum. So much for a piece of candy that would soon be gone? He kept that sentiment to himself. Extricating himself awkwardly, John ended up standing on the pavement outside, feeling vaguely insulted.

Dispirited, John took the tube home. Bert was feeding Siger, whose welcome to John was a long complicated series of sounds that sprayed Bert and the bib with dark green.

“Hello, love,” the weary blond father said, punctuated by a kiss to the top of Siger’s head, before asking, “Is that creamed spinach? Hi, Bert.”

“John.” Albert Tran nodded while cleaning the baby’s face. By some miracle Bert was dressed in a nice button up and trousers that had managed to remain clean in spite of the baby.

Pulling out the bits and pieces for risotto from cupboard and fridge, John invited, “Stay for dinner?”

There was no physical touch, but John could feel Sherlock behind them in the sitting room. His voice echoed through the doorway. “A rough day,” his partner commented, “of shopping?”

“Why rough?” Albert asked.

“John is on a quest,” came in a baritone from the couch.

John Watson looked unhappy, and began to bang pans and kitchen tools around. “There’s nothing wrong with finding the right Christmas present for someone,” he grumbled.

More commentary from the sitting room. “You’ve got this idea in your head, and nothing will delete it, John. You found nothing?”

Bert raised a slender eyebrow. “What are you looking for?” He began to tidy up Siger’s expressionist art endeavours from the high chair tray and around the feeding area. 

John waved a wooden spoon before grumping, “I wish you had been there to deduce the bastard, Sherlock. Gossip-mongering snoop. ‘Is this for a case, Dr. Watson?’ When it wasn’t, he couldn’t be bothered. Not rich enough. I bet he’s got plenty of tawdry little secrets.”

“How uncharitable of you, John,” Sherlock commented before answering Albert’s question for his partner. “We are looking for someone who makes marzipan ornaments for a Christmas tree. We need an umbrella made.”

“For Mr. Holmes?” Albert was not dim. 

Sherlock continued to explain from the other room, “Mycroft and my father would give us marzipan ornaments for Christmas when we were young. John likes the idea.”

“Well, I suppose there are plenty of chefs in London who would be able to do that. I could ask my parents for the name of their outsourcing for that sort of thing when they’re catering.” Bert dropped that tidbit of information out there.

John had just put the lid on the risotto, and froze in place with the spoon held high. They had forgotten he came from a restaurateur family. Typical. Sherlock appeared in the doorway. “Albert?” For all that he had been blasé a moment ago, he looked overjoyed. “You know people who can do this?”

Bert lifted Siger out of the chair. Time to change him. “Sure. But it will cost you…”

Sherlock waved his hand. “Money is not really an object for something of this sort.”

“... or you could go on CafePress and see what you can find there. You might find something for ten or twenty pounds,” the student finished as he put Siger on his shoulder and carried the baby out of the room.

John looked at Sherlock, the other man’s tall, thin, tousled dark curls framing a pale face with a mouth that had dropped open like a goldfish.

“CafePress?” he asked weakly.

They crowded over John’s laptop, sifting through over two hundred items for sale under the heading “marzipan ornaments”. Some were porcelain crafted to look like marzipan. Not what they wanted at all. The rest were disks of marzipan with pictures painted on them, or marzipan fruits.

Then, while they were online, they found Marzipanworld. John breathed a sigh of relief. “It’s doable. I’ll contact them tomorrow.”

In the end, it was a childhood friend of Bert’s who made the ornament. Or ornaments. She was attending a culinary institute, and more than interested in the task. Bert had chatted with her on Facebook about it that evening, and she’d leaped at the opportunity. Sherlock was aesthetically pleased with the two ornaments that Hanh produced. They weren't what John had envisioned, but the doctor would have paid twice the sum requested simply because the girl had not been condescending. 

A square box, about fifteen centimeters cubed, held an open umbrella tinted dark purple on the outside, and painted with edible food dye on the open underside to resemble a blue sky with clouds. The handle resembled Mycroft’s brown wooden grip. The second box, slightly larger, held a shield with the Lestrade coat of arms. Both had hooks for fastening the ornament on the Christmas tree.

John put them away carefully in a cool, dry place until Christmas Eve. The first box was already labeled: “For Uncle Mycroft, from Siger”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I had forgotten that Albert came from a food family, until he reminded me.


	11. December 11th:  the Christmas Forest

Albert Tran woke up, stretched, and gave his ribs a scratch. Kicking off the baby blue cotton sheets and the navy coloured duvet, he stepped out of his room into the hallway to use the water closet. The first oddity that struck him was the overwhelming smell of pine. It was spicy, and green, and in 221C.

Bert now wore pyjama bottoms to bed. Tonight they were an eye-searing lime green and shocking pink flannel. This was because his employers were prone to show up in the business office at any time of the day or night. Boxers, his original choice of bedware, proved embarrassing upon stumbling out in the middle of the night into a conclave of Sherlock and his Homeless Network. Bert might be brash, but he did have some limits. Homeless older women making appreciative remarks about his anatomy was one.

There was a forest in 221C. Bert blinked. There were still things that could surprise him. He was, after all, only twenty. The forest was decorated. It had not been there when Bert went to bed. There were fairy lights on the trees - all but one, and glass ornaments - all the same but with different colours depending on the tree - and tinsel, and a variety of interesting stars - those at least were all different - on top. There was room to walk through them; after all, there must be a path through the fairytale forest, and the caretaker was curious. 

A dark figure loomed from the side of the room. Dark-clad Sherlock. Albert shouted, followed by his uncoordinated stumble backward and the taller man’s tight grip on his upper arm, which kept him from falling. “Albert Tran -” that deep voice was creepy in the darkened room "- why would you be awake at this time of night?”

“Dreams of the twelve dancing princesses, sir,” Bert could not resist saying. 

The blank look - total incomprehension - lasted only a moment. Bert kindly did not laugh. “Cultural reference, Sherlock. A boy follows after twelve princesses who wear out their dancing shoes in the night. Invisibly. To solve the puzzle. He follows them through a silver wood, a gold wood, and a diamond wood.”

“This is a Vietnamese story?” Sherlock stated, possibly to separate its importance from his experiment.

“No.” And now Bert laughed at him, not unkindly, and clarified, “It’s European. But this is one of your experiments?”

“Hmm? Yes. I am looking for evidence into who murdered a reality show star.” His tall, thin boss moved to three trees spaced in front of the office sofa. “The rates of needle loss and dehydration of the tree in the condo will tell me which of her cast members was innocent. Of her murder, at least.

“These three will be watered at varying intervals to determine aspects of dryness in the needles. Flexibility, sharpness of the points, and brittleness. I will also be measuring rate of fall.”

“That’s three of them,” Bert pointed out. “What about the others?”

Sherlock pointed. He said, “Those three are being tested for the effect of electrical lighting on the dehydration rate. That one is testing the effect of constant illumination. The other is without any fairy lights to test lack of illumination. Those three are the controls. This office approximates best the flats in which the trees in question were being kept. The trees from which the needle evidence came. All of the trees were of the same variety, Norway Spruce - not a non-drop tree. Though the phrase non-drop is deceptive. All needles drop.”

"And that one?" Bert pointed to a smaller tree set beside Alice Brown's desk.

"That," Sherlock said, "Is the one we got for Alice to decorate the office.

Bert considered a moment. He asked, “There’s no danger of them catching fire, is there? They’re always warning about Christmas tree fires on the telly.”

“This is why I am checking on them now. I set them up four hours ago. Alice Brown will take care that they won’t burn down the flat or the block during office hours.” The detective seemed to find this idea amusing.

Holmes watched the boy for a moment before turning back to his measurements. Bert watched him, listened to the sound of the man watering his trees and the clinking of some odd device. Finally he asked, “Would you like some tea?”

Sherlock Holmes stopped short. Turned and looked at Albert carefully. “Yes,” he said finally.

Edging past one of the control trees, Bert busied himself with the electric kettle, setting up two cups. He put two sugars in one, because everyone in the household knew that Sherlock took his sweet. Bert drank his black for the most part. 

Alice kept some biscuits in an airtight plastic container. Bert put several out on a plate, sticking a couple into his mouth while he waited for the kettle. When all was ready he scooted past the tree with the tray, and laid it upon the surface of Alice’s desk. There was no other space in the room to put it. He didn’t know where the coffee table had gone. The coat rack had vanished as well. The chairs and sofa had disappeared behind green branches of pine. Taking his own tea - and a few more biscuits - to the floor, he took the time to look up and around. Really, the room looked rather nice this way. “I like it,” he told Sherlock.

The man appeared from behind one of the sofa trees. “You like what?” he asked, confused.

“Your Christmas forest.” Bert gestured with one of the biscuits, before saying, “Your tea is there on the desk.”

“Oh.” Tea mug cradled in those long thin fingers, the genius said, a little late for social comfort, “Thank you.”

There was silence. Together they watched the trees and their lights shining against the ornaments until Bert yawned. “Time to go back to sleep. Good night.” 

Sherlock Holmes made a noise in reply. Now he was also sitting on the floor. It was where Albert left him, to crawl back into his bed. Before he could fall asleep he had a small ponder about the household of which he was now a part. It was…interesting.


	12. December 12th:  Manipulation

There had been a bottle of scotch in the cupboard. After the long day, working overtime because his relief had the flu, John had arrived home to 221B to find no food or welcome. John just wanted to sit down, not even to make supper. He hadn’t had the wherewithal to be looking forward to anything. Albert had Siger downstairs in Mrs. Hudson’s flat, where she was baking, and Albert was attempting to order his books online for the next term while he kept Siger occupied. 

The flat was cold, the lights were off, and Sherlock had been sitting in the dark plotting. Since they had Albert watching Siger for the evening, it would be the opportune moment for Sherlock and John to walk the edge of the Thames in the worst part of London in the dark to find evidence of a smuggling operation for which criminal investigation Detective Inspector Dimmock had recommended their services. There had been a completely oblivious assumption that they would leave immediately. Food? Unnecessary, it will slow us down. The demand had become an argument. There had been shouting. Heaven knows what sort of domestic Albert and Mrs. Hudson were thinking was going on. Sherlock had stormed off in his bloody Belstaff on his own. In the dark. To the worst part of bleeding London to be in of a cold night. He’d told John that he hoped assassins did try to take him out. Not that he needed John’s protection. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself, John Watson. I managed for years before you. I don’t need you.” Then the slam of the door.

Angry. John was deep in what Sherlock called his “inner rage-bucket”, and he knew it would not be a good thing for him to go down and speak to any other human beings at the moment, let alone try to put Siger to bed. A glass of scotch was more than called for. But only one. John knew where the path led that had the first glass inviting another along - at least when you’re drinking to self-medicate, instead of just out with the boys for recreation.

“Oh, bloody hell!” he said to the empty, darkened flat, his head leaning back on the sofa. 

Just one thing after another. Sherlock had decided to experiment with all of John’s jumpers, even the Christmas ones. Or maybe especially the Christmas ones. John would not put it past his partner to conceive of an experiment to take out what Sherlock considered a crime against fashion - never admitting to such, of course, always with the best of motives. Every damned sweater that John owned burned or dissolved in acid downstairs in the lab. 

His maddening, manipulative flatmate! Manipulation, that’s what it was. Playing on John’s protective instincts. John knew that. Had Sherlock expected John to come running after him tonight? John had no plans to do so. Sherlock was not stupid, he’d take some precautions. He had, after all, been doing this longer than he’d known John. 

Dr. Watson sipped the scotch. He’d rather have a beer, if it came to that, or be out at the local with Lestrade, but now that he’d started - best not to switch one form of alcohol for another. And he had no energy to go out. None at all. Not even enough to get up and fix himself a sandwich from the kitchen, or head down to Mrs. Hudson’s - she’d make him eat even as she told him she was “not your housekeeper, dear.” No, he only had strength to sit here, sipping his scotch and working through his anger at his infuriating lover.

John was well aware that Sherlock was manipulative. He’d come into the sharing of the flat with that understanding. One evening of watching the man play with Lestrade, with Donovan, with Anderson, and he’d known that the consulting detective looked at human beings as tools. People do not magically change, just because someone loves them and they love in return. No, the git was not a sociopath, but he still had little interest in human interaction. It was easier for him to just use people. John knew he was a tool for Sherlock. He’d thought that he was an important tool. Something Sherlock really needed. But sometimes there was a difference between what Sherlock needed, what he wanted, and what was convenient. 

Hurt feelings over angry words with Sherlock. Not the first time. Probably not the last either. Hell. He was tearing up. It was a mistake to drink the scotch on an empty stomach. Blowing a deep breath out, John closed his eyes and tried to let the anger recede. 

“You knew he was manipulative when you got involved with him,” he muttered to himself. Saying it out loud didn’t feel any better than the dialogue he had been having inside his head. _You’re in love with the idiot, and you knew what he was like when you signed on for this_. “This” being sex, and love, and Siger.

You don’t plan on how you’re going to change someone that you love. Fixing them is not an option. Because really, then that person wouldn’t be the one you loved. _And,_ John reminded himself, If you didn’t want all of him, it’s not very much love, is it?

No. Not much. So. No way of knowing what had caused this whole uproar. Well, John knew on his side of the argument. He was tired, had low blood sugar - now chemically interacting with the alcohol - and had dealt with masses of flu-ridden and cranky patients all day long. What had spurred Sherlock? John had no idea. Sherlock had communication issues.

_Of course,_ John kept up his internal dialogue, you couldn’t be blind to your partner’s faults.

And that was true. Sherlock Holmes knew his. Sherlock knew John better than anyone, even Harry. Better than anyone had ever cared to know John H. Watson, even his parents. John did not doubt his parents’ love; it was just that Sherlock looked at him, observed him, knew him. Sherlock knew John ‘s temper deep down. The stubborn pride that drove the man. The frailty that made him dig his heels in.

John knew Sherlock. Probably not in as much detail as his brother, Mycroft. John knew and cared how Sherlock took his coffee and his tea. Not as a point of information. Not for control. But so that he could provide it, could share a nice cuppa after a long day, or in times of stress. John knew to tuck granola bars into the pockets of Sherlock’s coat. Not that his partner ate them, or not all of them. Sherlock frequently gave them to members of his Homeless Network when passing them in the street. Even now, after all the time together, after the years apart, John was in awe of Sherlock’s brilliance. Knowing how pompous and arrogant the man could be, John still found Sherlock amazing.

Sherlock was beautiful and brilliant, and he still wanted John by his side. This was not how John had pictured his life. Not ever.

Growing up, with Harry and his parents, John had not really thought of life without them. They would be a family forever, after all. The car smash that had taken their mother and father affected the brother and sister in vastly different ways. Harry had crawled into that bottle from which she was only now coming out. John had thrown himself into his studies, and then into his service as a soldier. He’d been an adventurous little boy, but the desire for danger had become a thirst in Afghanistan. After.

He’d discussed the future with friends in medical school. Plans to be a surgeon and to save lives with his trained hands. In Afghanistan the discussion had been different, prone toward the beauties of women, and the pleasures of food and fucking. There had been sharing of family pictures, of wives and children. John had thought in passing then that someday he would, most likely, marry. That faceless generic woman of the future.

Here he was, years later, in a committed relationship with an absolute nutter. No wife in the cards for John Watson. Sherlock said he wanted to stay with John for the long haul. God knew that John wanted him to stay. Were they good for each other, though? Did John feed Sherlock’s bad behaviors? And what about John’s? Sitting here with a glass of scotch did not argue well for John’s being very adult. Or very healthy, mentally.

Siger, though. Siger was worth all the madness. John had never imagined the little person that was Siger. If they followed through with Sherlock’s plan, then John would have another son or a daughter. A family.

His family. Sherlock was his family. And Siger Hamish Holmes. 

Footsteps sounded on the stairs, with the gentle coo of Siger’s babble. John put the tumbler up on the bookshelf. He really did not feel like drinking any more of it, and nothing on the coffee table was safe from his son’s predations. Wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, John thought he had gotten most of the offending liquid. Reaching to turn the lights up, he turned back to see a tall figure in the doorway, the small roundedness of the baby in those deceptively strong arms.

Sherlock was nothing but silent grace as he sat on the sofa next to John. “I thought -” the hesitation in his distinctive voice was at odds with those sure movements “- that we could use an evening with Siger tonight. Takeaway is ordered and should be here soon.” He was staring at John. Of course he was. Everything was observation to him, and this was, as he had so often said, “not my thing, relationships”.

John reached for the baby, who was perfectly happy to go to daddy. Siger continued the story he had been telling his _père_ , content - for now - to be held. John slouched. He slid sideways against the man whom he loved, who enraged him, and with whom he planned to spend the rest of his life. Carefully, a long arm was lifted, and placed around the shorter man’s shoulders, holding on tightly.

“I -” it was stuttered, which called for John’s complete attention, much to Siger’s outrage “- apologize. I saw, but did not observe. You are…necessary. I need you.” Sherlock attempted to put humour into his next comment. “Where would I be without my blogger?”

John gave a sigh. Apologies, yet. Still, sometimes those words are needed. “Accepted. I love you, Sherlock.”

“I love you too, John.” Those words are always needed. Sometimes they’re just said in other ways. John relaxed against his partner; Siger had returned to his burbling commentary, his little body spread across both of their laps now. Below there was the sound of Mrs. Hudson answering the door for the takeaway.


	13. December 13:  Holiday Jumpers

Sally Donovan handed John Watson a package. It wasn’t gift-wrapped, but it was surrounded by butcher’s paper, and had the soft lumpiness of something cloth. “Here. I heard all your jumpers got destroyed.”

John did not look startled so much as like a deer in the headlights. “How did you hear that?” he asked with trepidation.

“Lestrade,” Sally admitted. “Burning a man’s jumpers, John. That’s just cruel. It should fit. It’s from the team. Don’t let _him_ near it.” Giving Sherlock Holmes a dark glance, much as normal, she went back to her work on the scene.

Dr. John Watson thought to gracefully refuse the gift, but Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan was suddenly extremely busy. He tucked the bundle under his parka, and opened it later in the taxi.

It was the most awful Christmas jumper John had ever seen. It had a rather large and anatomically indistinct Father Christmas on the front about to go down a dried blood-coloured chimney. The sweater itself was an almost acidic tomato red. It was also incredibly soft. John closed his eyes and rubbed the knitted fabric against his face without having to look at it. It felt marvelous. Soft and warm.

“What’s that?” Sherlock had finally noticed. “Donovan gave you that. You tried not to accept it. Why would she give you a gift? Why would she gift you with an abomination of that sort? Sally has moderately good clothing sense. Better than yours, anyway. What is the significance?”

“Close your eyes,” John told the tall man beside him. Eyes closed, the knit jumper pressed softly to his cheek, Sherlock Holmes nodded. Taking the jumper, he examined it thoroughly - the seams, the stitching, the tags. 

“It’s a well-made sweater. But horrific,” the detective declared.

“Yeah, well...” John folded it back up - the paper was wadded into a ball and tucked into his pocket. “I’m keeping it.”

Silence while the genius digested that input, his light-coloured eyes fixed on the jumper in John’s lap. “Why?” he finally asked.

John sighed. “Because it’s nice, well-made - you said it yourself, soft, and I don’t have any jumpers and it’s cold. Also, it was a gift. Didn’t seem to be a practical joke, so…”

The dark-haired detective huffed out a breath. “If this is to make me feel guilty, John, it will not work.”

“Guilty? Why should you feel guilty about taking all of my jumpers and submitting them to an acid bath? Nothing earth-shattering about that,” John said with a look before he turned his gaze out the window of the taxi.

Sherlock had time to ruminate on his decision to confiscate John’s jumpers for the experiment. He’d asked Alice Brown- who was festively surrounded by decorated pine trees in the office - nicely, if she would mind him using her cardigans. They hung in a neat color coordinated row in the office closet. “Will I get them back?” she’d asked.

Upon Sherlock’s affirmative reply, Alice showed that she had learned much in her time as their bookkeeper, because she asked for clarification. “Will I get them back in the same condition in which I have lent them to you?”

Well, no. Sherlock was not able to give that promise. His own jumpers would not work. They were silk and cashmere, and not the same constitution as the items received into evidence in the murder investigation. Albert had chosen that moment to come out of his room. Sherlock had, of course, started to ask if he might use several of his jum….

“No. You do not have my consent,” Albert cut him off.

“I had not finished my question,” Sherlock grumbled.

“No consent,” Albert had repeated, then offered, “I can give that to you in writing.” It seemed that Albert had also learned from his association with Holmes. Sherlock suspected that it had been a mistake to let the young man read that addendum to the contract specifying that consent must be obtained in writing. John had been remarkably short-sighted in insisting on the addendum.

Siger’s sweaters were on par with Sherlock’s with regard to makeup. A pity. They’d have been much smaller samples, and in that state quite useful. The detective had had to go with John’s jumpers, made of cheaper materials. He’d repeated the experiment, as duplication was key to determining whether or not he had accurate results. Really, so much fuss over such a little thing. He’d planned on taking John shopping to replace the clothing, but time had gotten away from him.

They were almost home to Baker Street when John pulled off his coat - not easy to do in the back of a taxi cab. Sherlock’s look of dread told of his having accurately read the situation. He said nothing. Why ask a question when he knew the answer? Those cupid-bow lips were pulled thin and tight as Sherlock watched John haul the hideous jumper over his head.

Settling the sleeves and pulling the hem down, the blond doctor said, “It feels nice and warm.”

“Does it?” was Sherlock’s dry response.

“Quite a fine example, that is,” commented the taxi cab driver.

“A fine example?” John asked. “What do you mean?”

“Ugly Christmas Jumpers!” the chatty man explained. “My wife is crazy about them. Has quite the collection! Very ‘in fashion’ right now! She even went to a party for them. All the women wore their ugliest!”

“You don’t say,” was Sherlock’s cool comment. “In fashion?”

John began to laugh. He was still laughing when they arrived at 221B. Uncharacteristically, Sherlock had to pay the cabbie because John continued to laugh all the way up the seventeen steps to their flat. 

He’d gotten to the top of the stairs when Mrs. Hudson came out of her flat. “John?” she asked. “Is everything alright?”

“Perfectly fine, Mrs. Hudson!” John reassured her. “I haven’t laughed so hard in ages.”

“I got something for you when I went to the shops with Mrs. Turner. I’ll bring it right up!”

John had prepared tea for them all. Siger, of course, got a bottle. He put out Jaffa cakes, being in the mood for those himself. Mrs. Hudson joined them happily, smiling at Siger, who was banging his bottle on the coffee table, and laughing at the resounding thump. He had such a happy unreserved baby’s chuckle. After a few moments, she remembered what she was there for and handed over a box to John. “Here you are, dear.”

Inside the container was a royal blue jumper. It was lovely, warm, soft, and not hideous. John thanked her enthusiastically for it. Sherlock could not leave well enough alone. “Mrs. Hudson, are you aware of the current Ugly Holiday Jumper trend?”

“Yes, Sherlock,” she replied before taking a sip of her tea.

“You got John a plain jumper -” Sherlock started.

John interrupted with, “A bit not good, Sherlock.”

Mrs. Hudson gave them both a smile. “Sherlock, are you wondering why I didn’t get John one of those Ugly Jumpers that people are so crazy about?”

Sherlock was blunt. “Yes.”

“Well,” she said thoughtfully, “fashions change, don’t they? Best to give John something that will be nice, and won’t go out of style.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have added the subject "John's Jumpers" because... wouldn't you?


	14. December 14th:  Mrs. Hudson

Martha Hudson had resolved long ago not to miss opportunities. Several years ago, this house had been silent. The only sounds came from the customers banging in and out of Speedy’s, and the quiet ticking of her electronic kitchen clock. Those had been the days when Mrs. Martha Hudson had kept the door to the entryway closed. Then Sherlock and John had moved in. Noise had been odd and unexpected: gunshots that time when Sherlock was bored, horrid screeching of the violin in the dead of night when a case had reached a dead end, explosions followed by foul gaseous smells. Then two years of silence, as John had sunk deeper and deeper into depression. Martha had done what she could. She’d even badgered Mycroft Holmes to see to John’s welfare. So far as the landlady was concerned, the minor government official owed John his concern and assistance. Then there had been that joyous day that Sherlock had shown up at her door. The day she’d gone after the poor foolish boy with her frying pan at first. She was that confused!

Now, more often than not, her flat was open to the rest of the house. All the flats were filled, but not with separate people. They were all connected.

She could tell each of her various tenants by their footsteps on the stairs. Alice Brown had a certain, steady light pace. She did not usually go up the stairs to B, but Martha knew her footsteps from the stairs down into the C flat. Albert, who lived in the bedroom of the C flat, raced up and down the steps like the youngster that he was. At times she was worried he would trip and break his neck. Still, he didn’t race when carrying Siger, so that was a relief.

John’s steps varied depending on how tired or excited the day had made him. Sherlock, well, the boy would race up the stairs as though taking them step by step wasted time. Martha couldn’t take the stairs as quickly as any of them. She had a hip, after all.

One of these days Siger would be climbing up those steps. Bumping up or down step by step, dragging a teddy like Edward Bear, then with stronger steps, until he was racing them like his father and Albert. Siger was a blessing. 

And a grandchild. Oh, she’d long ago resigned herself to never having children. Martha was near and dear to her sister and nieces and nephew, affectionate as could be. But that wasn’t the same as having her own children. Sherlock was the closest she had ever come to a son. Lord knows she loved him like a son. And while he was rude to her at times, and took advantage most of them, he protected her. Martha was sure that he loved her. Oh, not as he had loved his mother of course. She had been a far cry from anything that Martha Hudson knew. A diplomat’s wife, and quite lovely from the photographs. Tall, certainly, as both Mycroft and Sherlock were on the spun-out side, compared to Martha’s tiny height. Sherlock’s mother would have danced stately in a ball gown, not exotic around a pole. Sherlock never treated her as lesser because of her past. 

Of course, being Sherlock, her criminal connections were an asset. And she’d never regretted what had happened in Florida. Well, she’d never regretted Sherlock sending her husband to the electric chair. There was a good deal before that which Martha Hudson would rather not have experienced.

It was a trifle inconvenient about Mr. Chatterjee’s bigamy. She’d not have known about it if Sherlock hadn’t spilt on him. Still, good to know. She could use it, she could.

In any case, her family had grown with John Watson’s introduction into the house. John was a good man. He took care of Sherlock, and brought with him a modicum of civility. John was like the son-in-law she never thought she’d have. How odd that was. Even if she had initially assumed he was the partner to Sherlock’s homosexuality. That had come much later, of course; John had taken some convincing. Martha had the idea that Siger’s arrival had something to do with it all.

It was obvious that John loved Sherlock from the beginning. Watching Sherlock with John, the importance of Dr. Watson was also apparent. Oh, from time to time they would have a domestic. John was quite loud when he lost his temper; he enunciated, too. Martha could hear exactly what he was saying. Sherlock’s voice did not carry quite so much. 

There had been a time when Martha Hudson had thought the two might get married. Perhaps that was old-fashioned thinking, what with Siger’s arrival and all. Or new-fashioned, she guessed. There was still time. She just hoped that they would tie the knot before she passed on.

Meanwhile, Martha was in and out of their flat most days. When John was away - say at a medical conference - Sherlock had seemed to think tea was just suddenly there in the mornings. Possibly that John provided it long-distance. Martha did not mind much. Sherlock had a funny old brain that saw the oddest things, and yet missed some of the most important bits.

Or maybe not. Even then, he knew to trust her when the CIA came to call. He knew she would not leave 221, or more importantly, Sherlock.

Of course, now that they had Siger, some of those less important bits were coming to Sherlock’s notice. Martha was wise enough not to bring up the detective’s behavior during his and John’s recent domestic. Martha could remember a time when Sherlock would have disappeared for days. Of course, before Siger, John Watson might not have been exhausted enough to turn down a crime scene. Martha had figured out the reason for the domestic from John’s side of the argument.

When the loud voices had started, Albert had carried the baby off to the C Flat. Best all around, Martha thought. Martha had listened, of course. She was the landlady after all. And more.

The stocking on the mantle. Mycroft’s gift was beautiful. Sherlock’s brother had good taste. But Martha believed strongly that the baby should not be alone up there on the mantlepiece. It had not been much. She just wanted Siger’s parents to be with him. It had not occurred that Sherlock would put the fourth stocking up. Obviously Sherlock and not John - her tenant had hopped around holding on to the baby until Martha had noticed. “Siger made it,” he’d said. That funny old brain. Martha Hudson could see his hand in the this rather than John’s. Oh, both, no all three of their hands were literally there. But “Grandmere”, that was Sherlock.

The fairy lights, the greenery, neither of her tenants would have thought of those before Siger. Such a little bit to bring this family together at Christmastide.

Christmas. A time of family. With her new family, or not so new, but with new members. With her boys, the three of them. This was already the best of all possible Christmases.


	15. December 15th:  Viscus albus

European white-berried mistletoe. A parasite, John had thought. The readings said, “hemiparasite”. Hmm. Partially parasitical, but also used photosynthesis. John had thought they grew on oak trees. Seems they preferred apple trees. A pagan symbol, of course. Very English, what with the druidic connection. Oval leaves, grayish green - an evergreen, with tiny white to pale pink berries. Keep out of reach of children. John could live with that. He wasn’t buying it for Siger.

John had purchased a mistletoe ball from the English Mistletoe Shop. There was a business in the plants. In fact, due to fluctuations in mistletoe production and growth, people were actively being encouraged to grow them. John had thought to buy each of the six varieties from his initial research. Then he discovered that there were dwarf varieties, and all manner of others, up to fourteen hundred of them. Amazing. Their mistletoe ball was hung in the cathedral heights of the 221 entryway. He had hired one of the painters next door at Mrs. Turner’s to place it up beyond where John could reach, or even really see it from the front doorway. It was visible from the landing before 221B. If one looked up, that is. Instead of down toward where one was traveling.

Now to wait for Sherlock Holmes to catch it. John thought his partner would take at least a day, if not several, to notice the plant. No one else in the house would have perceived it. Well, if they had not seen the painter on his ladder installing it. There was quite a little grouping of them beneath the ladder as the painter placed it. John was uncertain how he was going to get it down after the holidays.

Sherlock was not at home because he had been called in to NSY by Detective Inspector Lestrade. John was to meet them there, having requested to finish errands first. It had not been an urgent case. Barely a three. John received a river of texts. That did not bode well. Arriving at the Met, the doctor discovered an extremely disgruntled detective. Well, there were quite a few of them, but only one that Dr. John Watson could call his own. “A simpleton could have solved this puzzle,” the tall, dark-haired man grumbled.

“Good Lord, John, get him out of here before he and Donovan kill each other!” Gregory Lestrade barked.

“What did you say this time?” John asked with good humour. He followed his detective to the elevator, and listened as the doors closed.

“I may have questioned her ability to count,” Sherlock admitted. “They missed a vital clue, which I found by looking at crime scene photographs.”

They left, taking Sherlock’s traditional taxicab, with that baritone continuing nonstop. Nonstop indeed, as he was still going on up the front steps to the stoop of 221, and in the black-painted front door, when the words stopped short. That nose that so frequently wrinkled up in disdain twitched. The six feet of detective did not look up; his gaze rounded the entryway before he stared down at John. 

John stared back up at him, entranced. “You’re like a bloody hound, aren’t you?” the doctor said before Sherlock bent down to press his mouth against the shorter man’s. 

“One is expected to kiss beneath the mistletoe, am I correct?” That was asked with a smile.

“What told you?” John asked breathlessly. 

“Marks from the ladders, the scent of both greenery above, and whatever the workman used for cologne. Cheap and pungent.”

John’s response was immediate and honest: “Brilliant.” A kiss punctuated it. After all, kissing was good exercise. Two calories a minute - not great exercise, not the eleven calories a minute he got chasing the nutter about London, but it was something. John had expected that Sherlock read that in a women’s mag - the man’s choice of reading matter was widely varied (“I need to know perceptions as well as advertising, John!”), but no - he’d read it on WebMD.

The kissing beneath the mistletoe went on throughout the holiday season. Sherlock seemed able to find the plant, even in plastic form, wherever it was to be found in the seasonal decorations. John found one that Sherlock did not. It was a small drawing, obviously done by a child, that hung above the lintel at a crime scene. It did not agree with John’s sensibilities to kiss there, although it was a case of fraud, not murder. Once they returned home, however, Sherlock had no cause to complain about John’s initiation of intimacies.

John quite liked the mistletoe’s effects. Kissing was something he liked to do, but he usually abstained in public, unless it was a quick peck of a greeting. From his research, he had now garnered enough information about the plant to have a semi-coherent discussion with his genius. The doctor had been correct, as this was a subject that Sherlock knew a bit about. One of the sites he had explored sold a kit for home growing the plant, and John fixed upon the idea of the kit instead of obtaining one of each type of the greenery. Of course that would require Mrs. Hudson’s permission. The hemiparasite required a tree to base upon. When Sherlock took Siger to visit Molly, John spoke to their landlady about it. Well, about planting some mistletoe.

“I have a back garden, John,” Martha Hudson pointed out.

“I’ve never seen it,” John said. “Whenever we’ve had to esc… snea… exit the house other than the front door, Sherlock’s taken us out the side windows.”

The look he received for that admission was disapproving. “That’s as may be,” Mrs. Hudson told him, “but if you want to look at my bit of garden, you may do what you like with it.”

Well, there was not much of it. Certainly no space for a tree, nor any tree in fact present. What Mrs. Hudson called a back garden was set in pots in a very small paved space. Ah. Well, then. John ordered the set anyway. It wouldn’t come until around Valentine’s Day. That was planting season. Sherlock would figure something out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://englishmistletoeshop.co.uk/live/?product=grow-kit-gift-cards
> 
> http://mistletoe.org.uk/homewp/wp-content/uploads/2012/07/Mistletoe_infosheet_4_management.pdf
> 
> http://www.webmd.com/sex-relationships/features/kissing-benefits


	16. December 16:  Shopping with Sherlock and Siger

Sherlock sent John off to run errands. “Siger and I have things to do this afternoon,” the doctor had been told. He took that with good grace.

Sherlock carefully dressed his son in one of the well-worn onesies that he’d retrieved from the church cloth jumble. His own clothes were deliberately worn and nothing like his habitual garments. Clean, and whole, but not an ounce of style, and baggy - oversized as well as stretched out. A knit hat and hoodie for each of them. Not matching, of course. 

They wouldn’t use the perambulator. Siger was used to the snug sack, of course, and he loved the tube. The rule was that they did not take Siger to crime scenes. There was no rule that forbade Sherlock taking a day and practicing his disguises. It was amazing the places that the tall, dark-haired detective could go with the baby, and not be noticed by people in the street. All without putting Siger in any danger, and providing his son with any number of interesting people to see. Siger faced out, observing everything, kicking his little legs. Sherlock spent the morning quietly giving the fruits of his observations to that tiny ear.

Lunch was a sandwich from a cart, and a bottle for Siger. The baby was happy to gum a piece of the bread and meat until it was a paste. Sherlock estimated that a fraction of nutrition got into his son’s digestive tract. Still, Siger seemed happy. John would be pleased that he’d eaten as well.

“Can I help you?” a pert shop girl dimpled at him in the men’s shop. It wasn’t the type of place that Sherlock purchased his clothing from. It was, however, slightly higher quality than John normally bought for himself. 

Here, Sherlock used a different stance, pulled the knit cap from his curls and gave them a quick brush. A finely-made jumper covered Siger’s ordinary clothing. The infant knit cap flipped inside out to show a knit that matched the jumper. The man could have been any young professional dad out for a Saturday with his child. 

“Hi, yeah. My wife is home sick, and sent me out to buy a jumper for her brother. It’s his birthday this weekend. We need something nice that’s not Christmas.” Sherlock put a bit of flirtation into his smile.

That got an even bigger smile in response. Sherlock could read her thoughts - flirtatious men tipped, and tended to buy more than they needed to enjoy attention from a pretty girl. “Of course, sir!” The girl even leaned forward to give Sherlock a better look at her cleavage before bending down to pull a selection of lambswool sweaters from beneath the counter. “Here are some lovely jumpers. Lambswool.” Sherlock gave the expected appreciative look while cataloging flaws in the girl’s moisturizing regimen.

Siger was examining the girl’s long, straight hair. Sherlock also watched with interest how she kept it out of the way, memorizing the little head twitches and tosses for when he needed one of several long-haired wigs in his closet. Siger began to talk to the girl, no doubt telling her how interesting he found the hair, and how much he wanted to conduct experiments on its tensile strength. Siger did like to take hold of people’s hair and pull on it.

The girl found Siger adorable. As she should, of course. This gave Sherlock the opportunity to examine the items in detail. There was an oatmeal Aran that would do to replace John’s acid-eaten oatmeal jumper. It was the right size, good craftsmanship - superior to anything else he had seen in the shop. Sherlock had liked John in that oatmeal jumper. Still, the Work had needed to be served.

“We’ll take this one, won’t we, son?” Sherlock smiled at the clerk. Smiles were, after all, free. Better yet, smiles were currency. “Is there a discount? I believe I saw a sign about a sale?”

No. The discounts were for the Christmas sweaters, which Sherlock was not going to buy on a dare. No, possibly he would purchase one for Mycroft simply to see him wince. Sherlock’s carefully modulated disappointment, along with Siger’s continuing babble convinced the girl to give them a store discount, however. So their first purchase was all to the good.

The next shop garnered them a Fair Isle that would suit John perfectly. They took a break in a small park to give Siger a chance to get out of the carryall before hitting two more stores for jumpers that would bring out the highlights in John’s hair, and showcase those blue eyes. At each place Sherlock was a different person. A flamboyantly gay man shopping for his lover, a widower looking for a gift for the minister who had given him support during the long illness of his lost wife, an annoyed businessman in a hurry and inconvenienced by being required to watch his son for the afternoon. Each persona geared to get him the best possible discount and service from whomever was serving at the counter. That last felt uncomfortable for some reason. It helped that Siger was becoming tired and cranky - he fit into the disguise well. 

Still, Sherlock was glad when they had finished shopping and he could take his son out of the carrier and cuddle him, giving kisses to the red curls, and sharing a bit of biscuit with his bottle. Siger’s bottle, not Sherlock’s, which was actually a thermal paper cup filled with coffee, sweet the way that Sherlock liked it.

Facing toward his father on the way home, the baby fell asleep with his head on _père’s_ chest. That helped a good deal because the bags of jumpers were bulky, even when consolidated. Sherlock kept a sharp eye on them on the tube, as he used them as a bulwark on the seats to either side. It wasn’t rush hour, but Siger tended to attract people who wanted to talk either to him, or about him with Sherlock. The detective found that he was tired as well. Most certainly he was fatigued of interacting with People. He wanted to get back home to where it was him, and Siger, and John.

There was just time to get the bags to Alice Brown to hide before they went upstairs for supper. All in all? A satisfactory day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For considering_lilies, as requested.


	17. December 17th:  Nativity

John took Siger on a walk down to the church to see the Creche. Picking his son up, holding him close, the doctor quietly told the story of the baby, born in the middle of the night in a stable to a young mother and an older father who could not find room at the inn. He talked of the animals in the stable yard. The ox, the ass, the sheep and her lamb, all wooden figures, worn but freshly painted, to be found in the wooden shell sitting on the small patch of grass by the church yard door.

John spoke of the angel calming the fears and telling the good news to the shepherds, the poorest of the poor, and bidding them come to be the first to worship the newborn king. He repeated those words so often heard that they were imprinted upon John’s memory: “And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying, ‘Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace among those with whom he is pleased.’” 

Siger Hamish Holmes pressed his soft, rounded cheek against his father’s slightly stubbly one, eyes wide as he examined the figures before him, listening to the reverence in his father’s voice, if not understanding the words. He expected kisses after paying attention like this, and was not disappointed in that. Kisses were pleasant. Siger liked receiving them.

When his father had finished giving him the information that he so clearly wished to input, and the expected kisses, Siger pointed at various colorful items in the creche, and asked questions of which John could only guess the meaning. John answered them to the best of his ability. “Yes, Siger, the manger is filled with straw. It is the plate for the animals to eat from. Like the tray on your high chair. No, the animals are not going to eat the baby. They eat straw and plant matter.

“He must be cold, mustn’t he, the baby Jesus? Out here all uncovered. In the story he was wrapped in swaddling clothes. Babies like to be swaddled. You did when we brought you home to Baker Street. That means wrapped tightly in cloth to simulate being confined in the womb.”

When Siger slowed down in his commentary, and eventually began sucking on his fist, John gave him a last hug, then popped him back into his stroller and began the long walk back home.

Mrs. Hudson thought it would be a nice treat to take Siger down to see the creche at the church. She invited Mrs. Turner to walk with them. After all, Mrs. Turner’s were only marrieds, not parents. It would be nice to share her good fortune with her friend. “Oh, look, Siger,” she said when they arrived. “See? There’s the baby, Jesus, looking ever so cold in that manger. I really don’t think he was dressed that way. No one in their right mind would leave a baby naked at night in a pile of straw. Even down south.”

Mrs. Turner piped in, “Who knows what people in those regions would get up to. Perhaps it’s very hot there in the night? Isn’t Bethlehem supposed to be a desert?”

This Mrs. Hudson could speak on: “John was down in that area. Well, Afghanistan. It’s desert right enough, but it gets cold at night. John told me about that.”

“Oh, well, I suppose so,” Mrs. Turner commented. “Look at Mary, Siger. Dressed from head to toe in blue robes, with that long blonde hair. So young she was!”

“And her husband, that was Jesus’s stepfather. Stern he looks. Putting up with no nonsense,” Martha Hudson said thoughtfully, “but kind and taking care of a child that was not his own. A good man, Joseph was. A carpenter by trade.”

Siger looked up at them expectantly. Nothing further was forthcoming, and so he asked a question. Martha Hudson had come up with a standard answer for anything that Siger asked. “I’m sure I don’t know, Siger. You’ll have to ask your fathers.” This always made Siger blink and hum, and seem to think much like his father, Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson believed that Siger must have a mind palace like his father’s already.

Mrs. Turner suggested that they go for a nice tea at the shop around the corner. They had a lovely cream cake, she said. Mrs. Hudson could be persuaded. The woman in the shop loved when she brought Siger to visit.

Mycroft Holmes offered to babysit Siger at his own flat while Sherlock and John assisted Detective Inspector Lestrade. It was a good experience for Siger to become used to Mycroft’s home, and the pack-and-play was set up in the sitting room where the baby could go to sleep until his fathers came to pick him up.

Carrying Siger from room to room, Mycroft introduced him to each, explaining what activities generally occurred in each room. “When you are older, Siger, we will watch classic films. Your father John, might join us, but your father Sherlock has little interest.”

They reached the sitting area, and Mycroft closed the baby gate to fence in the room before setting Siger in the middle of the freshly cleaned carpet. He stood, uncertainly, watching the baby carefully. The tiny mite was examining the room with what looked like active intelligence. His nephew looked up into his eyes and commented, “Ba ba babababa,” before hoisting himself onto his hands and knees and scrambling toward the sofa. Mycroft watched, fascinated as Siger pulled himself partially up, not standing, but using his arms. Siger looked over at his uncle.

“Do you want me to give you some practice with your legs?” Mycroft asked. He did not wait for an affirmative - after all, the child was not even close to verbal - and picked up Siger. Sitting on the sofa, he placed his nephew on his expensively trousered knees and held him in a standing position. Siger was delighted. A giggle, then more as the boy pushed against his uncle’s knees with his feet. Siger commented at length as he exercised.

Mycroft lost track of time playing with Siger. Like all things, playtime came suddenly to an end when Siger dropped, letting tired legs relax and leaving his uncle holding him up by the arms. Switching his grip on the baby, Mycroft checked the time. Not yet ready for a bottle and bed. Siger seemed to be looking at the end table. The creche there was antique, intricately carved wood from Germany. “That, Siger, is the family of Jesus, the Christ. That means the Messiah,” Mycroft intoned, then caught himself. “Of course you won’t understand that. It’s a baby, Siger, like yourself. God sent him to the world. He made a very great difference in the world. Good things and bad have been done in His name. He wouldn’t have appreciated the bad, really. He would have been disappointed in it. So we try to do what He would have liked. Love others. Care for others. All others, even if they don’t much like us, or appreciate our efforts.”

Siger looked from the wooden stable with its tiny wooden family, the animals, a blond angel on the wooden roof weighted down with tiny pebbles, up to his Uncle Mycroft’s face. “MememeBa,” he informed the tall man whose hair was much the same colour as Siger’s, if not as curled. Then the baby stuck a chubby fist into his mouth.

Mycroft blinked. “I am interpreting that as a summons to attend to your supper, Siger.” They left the room and the creche to take care of that.

It was the next day, a beautiful one of sun and fluffy clouds, that Sherlock Holmes decided to take Siger for a walk in his pram. Well, they called it the “pram”, but it they’d switched the actual perambulator with a stroller. This time they did not worry about costumes and disguises. Sherlock was dressed as himself, black Belstaff coat swirling about him as he turned the corner, Siger in a matching outfit, minus the black coat. Siger’s bunting made him look like a little purple star, buckled into the navy blue of the stroller. 

They reached the church, with its large wooden nativity scene, and Siger looked up at Sherlock, apparently expecting to stop. Sherlock continued on. Siger fussed. His father looked down. “What? You want to look at the wooden theological construct?”

Apparently Siger did. Sherlock moved the stroller into position and they gazed at the setup in silence for a moment. “Your Daddy,” Sherlock finally said, “believes that this is the son of God. Come to save every man from himself and his stupidity.”

There was another silence, and then Siger looked back at his _père_. “No, Siger,” Sherlock said, “I do not believe he was anything other than a baby. Possibly a man who saw more in people than they themselves saw. Because people see, but they do not observe. Further than that? I have no data. I must have data before I believe impossible things. Or even improbable things like baby animals in the middle of winter, or a blond, Circassian Mary when we know her lineage was certainly other.”

Siger considered this, then spoke at length. Sherlock answered, “I do not know how your Daddy can find all of that in this story. A saviour, an aspect of Godhead on this earth. He has faith.”

The baby gave a series of “la”s which Sherlock interpreted as he would. He spoke carefully, “Faith is the belief that something is there, even if you don’t have, and have never had the item in direct sensory contact, or logical proof. This baby was born over two thousand years ago. No one knows where his remains are. Well, he was an adult when he died, painfully, on an instrument of torture. It’s best not to theorize ahead of facts. And I have no facts, and a little scant historical record. Your father -” then begrudgingly “- and your Uncle Mycroft and your Uncle Lestrade believe he, Jesus, was…is the Son of God. Your Daddy will explain his reasoning as you grow. You will make your own decisions as to what you believe.

“I will love you no matter what you decide. Just because. Like I love your Daddy. Can we move on now? I feel this is quite enough religious instruction for one of your age.”

Siger’s response was to smack his lips, and then blow a raspberry. Which Sherlock interpreted as time to move on.


	18. December 18:  Reading

They took it in turns to read to Siger daily. Of course he saw them reading at their laptops, and the newspapers, and informational books for research. They read bits and pieces out loud to each other. John often looking for suggestions for cases, striving to find odd bits and pieces that would interest his flatmate. At times he would discover an oddity that amused him, and read it aloud with laughter in his voice.

Sherlock did not read aloud to John as often. There were moments when the detective would read items pertaining to a case. John did not always glean the same information from those that Sherlock did. Actually, John did not usually gather what his partner was going on about. Sherlock was not reading to share with John, but to inform him.

They were both educated men. Sherlock read - if not for pleasure, then for information - frequently when he had the opportunity. The shelves were full of his tomes on chemistry, poisons, histories of criminal behavior, information on strange behaviors. There were also books on beekeeping. John had never seen Sherlock reading those, although Siger had heard pieces out of them when no one else was home.

John had started several shelves as well, though nowhere near as many as the consulting detective. He had kept the thrillers and adventure novels that were his free time literary diet there. When he’d spoken to Harriet about children several months before Siger’s arrival, she’d sent him boxes of the books from when they were kids. All of his previous tattered paperbacks and secondhand hardcovers had been pulled off to make way for those precious stories. Most of those larger books had now been moved to Siger’s room up the stairs. _Treasure Island_ had mysteriously ended up on Sherlock’s shelves, of course. When Siger had begun to move about the flat on his own, whatever was left had been placed up out of a baby’s reach. Now board books and toys filled those spaces. John made do with the bedside table in the room he shared with Sherlock for his pile of “books to read for fun”.

Siger saw Albert reading as well, for homework, on the internet, and sometimes for fun. Not so much of the last one, though. As for Mrs. Hudson, she watched the telly more often than not. And Alice Brown often sat reading papers and contracts in the office when she was watching the baby. Suffice it to say that Siger saw the people around him, or most of them, reading frequently. Albert especially read to Siger in French and Vietnamese, at Sherlock’s and John’s request. He managed this sometimes by translating English language children books on the fly.

Then there were the times that the people, Siger’s big people, read Siger’s books. It could be that they were showing the books to Siger, speaking in measured tones as they held the boy in their laps. Or they might be speaking those words while Siger was experimenting with his stuffed lamb, or his big squeaky rubber bees. Siger liked to talk to them, his lamb and his bees. At night they went to bed with him in his crib, along with several cloth books. Siger enjoyed looking at those while waiting for whichever big person would come to get him up in the morning. He would tell his lamb what the book was telling him.

John liked hearing Sherlock reading out loud to Siger. Sherlock’s voice was almost a physical sensation for the doctor. He also had a good performance sense, and could make the books come alive. Sherlock had a low tolerance for repetition, though, and was inordinately choosy about which he would read. That was because the man felt odd reading children’s books out loud. Sherlock had been working his way through the larger Dr. Seuss books: _Happy Birthday To You_ , _Dr. Seuss’s Sleep Book_ , _If I Ran the Zoo_. The poetry remained correct, but the literal scientist would then discuss with Siger the genetic viability of the Seussian creatures. Now, though, he was reading _A Christmas Carol_ , which was taking longer than Sherlock had expected. Siger tended to insist on _père_ playing instead of reading.

Sherlock liked listening to John reading to Siger. John did voices. Squeaky, high-pitched voices, deep, low-pitched tones. John had no shame in reading anything to their son. He’d read that way with Albert in the room, or with Mrs. Hudson there. Sherlock would be listening to John read while he stretched out on the couch, or on the floor in Siger’s room, with his long fingers steepled, and would look over to catch John’s eyebrow lifting at him, or those blue eyes glittering with amusement that invited sharing. 

Sherlock knew that John’s favorite Christmas story was a chapter from _Wind in the Willows_ , entitled “Dulce Domum” - Sweet Home. He knew this because John kept trying to read the chapter, but refused to do so unless Sherlock was there with him and Siger. Sherlock had been called out of the room twice, upon which John had put the book down and picked up another one; they had several of the Christmas variety borrowed from the library. After the second time, Sherlock had caught the hint. 

The next time Sherlock heard, “The sheep ran huddling together against the hurdles, blowing out thin nostrils and stamping with delicate fore-feet, their heads thrown back and a light steam rising from the crowded sheep-pen into the frosty air, as the two animals hastened by in high spirits, with much chatter and laughter”, he turned off his mobile unobtrusively, and settled down to hear it. Siger was asleep by the time John had read the chapter through. The small bedroom that had been John’s was cozy. Even the floor was comfortable to Sherlock as he listened to John’s voice, with the soft sound of Siger’s sleeping breath just heard over the creaking of the rocking chair, as he lay on the hooked dragon rug at John’s feet.

Dulce Domum. Home sweet home. Sherlock, Siger, and John.


	19. December 19th:  Shopping with John and Siger

John and Siger were taking Harry and Clara out to lunch. With lunch, there would be shopping. Siger was, of course, wearing the jumper that Auntie Harry had given him. She had not knitted it herself, as her skills had not increased enough to manage anything beyond straight and square. Ish. John was wearing a blue plaid button-up under his camel-coloured sports coat. He didn’t have enough nerve to wear the Christmas sweater in public yet, though he did plan on wearing it to the next crime scene that Lestrade’s team would be attending.

Siger was on his best behavior, flirting with the waitress, trying bits and pieces of everyone else’s dinner, and generally being his sunny self. “I can see who he takes after, John,” prodded Harry. “Flirting with the waitress.”

“Not lately, I haven’t,” John protested. Which was true. He only flirted when Sherlock set him on someone as a diversion. So far, always female, for which John was thankful. He just didn’t find men - well, men other than Sherlock - attractive. For John, flirting required a modicum of attraction.

Their meal was leisurely. John regaled Harry and Clara with bits and pieces of the recent fraud case that would not make it into his blog. Nothing that would compromise their client, but clever or amazing things that Sherlock did that wouldn’t quite fit into the storyline of the blog. Harry and Clara told tales about redecorating their flat. Siger spoke at length, and none of them could actually translate his meaning. They did spend a good portion trying to do so, though.

After lunch, they walked down the street, window shopping and exchanging comments about the decorations and items for sale. 

“What do you need here? It doesn’t seem the type of shop you’d get Sherlock a present at. Siger’s too young for this stuff,” was the comment as they entered a clothing store that John thought might have a nice stock of dress socks. 

“I need new socks for the Christmas service. Got to look my best,” John said with a smile, thinking that what Sherlock wore as socks John would never be able to justify buying. Too expensive for something that would go on his feet and never be seen. Hiking socks, now, that was different. But for fancy dress? Well, at least he wasn’t doing Marks and Sparks. So Sherlock couldn’t complain.

Siger greeted the shopgirl with a cheerful babble, and waving hands. “Hello,” she smiled in greeting. “How may I help you?”

“Just socks,” John grinned, “and just one pair.” Harry and Clara were ostentatiously looking at the Ugly Christmas Jumpers. “They’re with me.”

With no one to serve, the girl bent down to smile at the baby, her long straight hair swinging into his grasp at last. Siger took advantage and grabbed. Tight. He explained at length and in quick bubbly syllables what he was attempting to accomplish.

John went to the girl’s rescue. “Hold on!” Peeling the tiny fingers from the silken strands, he translated for the baby: “Siger says that you have very beautiful hair. He found it impossible to resist.”

Wincing, the girl told him, “It’s okay. He’s a cute little kid.” It was when they had retrieved her hair from Siger’s grasp that she took a closer look at the child. “I know you,” she said, before turning to John and asking, “Are you his dad’s wife’s brother?”

John stopped for a moment before saying warily, “No, actually, I’m his father.” Sherlock, obviously, had been here with Siger.

“But,” she argued, “he was in earlier with a tall guy. Dark-haired.”

“Oh,” John blinked, his suspicions confirmed. “That’s his other father. My partner. Did Sherlock really tell you he was married and had a wife?”

“Sherlock?” the girl asked, her eyes growing wide. “Sherlock Holmes? Are you John Watson? Really? My professor at uni follows your blog! Well, both of your blogs, actually.”

John blinked again. “Really?” he echoed. “What are you studying? Criminology? Forensics?”

“Marketing,” was the answer. “Professor Atwood uses your blogs as examples of how not to market yourself.”

The little feeling of pride that John had been feeling vanished immediately. “Really?” he repeated, deflated.

“You don’t need to market yourself,” she assured him, “because you provide a singular service. It’s just - it’s a marketing class. So we come up with ways you could attract more business.”

John found himself explaining, “We don’t really need that much more than we’ve got right now. We’re just two people. It’s a very small business.” She had, after all, been nice about whatever jiggery pokery Sherlock had been trying on.

Siger chose this moment to demand freedom. Or at least a release from the stroller. John unbuckled him and lifted the baby into his arms. “What,” he asked conversationally, “did Sherlock say when he was here?”

The girl had a dimple when she smiled. “He said that his wife was home sick, and she had sent him out to purchase something for her brother.” Now she got coy: “But I’m betting it wasn’t for anyone’s brother, so I don’t think I should say what it was.”

John raised a blond eyebrow and looked around the shop at that. The shopgirl laughed and said, “Don’t guess. That would be mean.”

Siger contributed to the conversation, adding a raspberry for punctuation. “Really, Siger?” John asked his son. “You’re siding against me?” It seemed that Siger was, indeed.

John made his purchase: one pair of dark socks for his suit at Christmas. The girl asked for his business card, if he had one, to prove to her professor that she had really met him. John handed the cardstock rectangle over. “Oh, this is nice,” she commented on it, as if surprised. “I’m sorry.” It was as if all her statements had just caught up with her brain. “I have been horribly rude. But it is very nice to meet you, Dr. Watson!”

John smiled. “Our business manager had them made up. She’s really quite good for us.”

Harry and Clara chaffed him all the way back to the taxi stand. “You don’t flirt anymore, my eye!” his sister teased.


	20. December 20th:  Sweets

It is the time of year when men and women go into overtime baking good tasting foodstuffs, preparing for the Christmas lunch, and all the meals that surround it. One of the inhabitants of 221 Baker Street, a tall, thin man of high energy in flat B, usually ate his way through them without any second thoughts. Well, without any thoughts as to the effect of all the carbohydrates on his own body. His thoughts previously had all been on how he could use the season and its temptations to make his elder brother’s life a living hell.

This year, this Christmas, was different. Oh, not because he wished to make life any less difficult for his archenemy, Mycroft Holmes. Life changes much when children enter your life. Sherlock Holmes was eating on a more regular schedule now. He’d put on a few pounds - which John seemed relieved to see, if the truth were told - and it felt a little odd when considering himself in the mirror. Mycroft had a treadmill. Sherlock knew he had a strict regimen of exercise. The thought horrified Holmes the younger. He had taken to choosing to exercise more often than not, taking Shanks Mare instead of the taxi when possible, and giving Siger walks to the park. While not becoming obsessive in this tendency, he did also start to keep track of his caloric intake, usually at the same time he recorded Siger’s.

Sherlock did not cheat in his recordkeeping. To falsify data without purpose was unthinkable. As he entered Siger’s two ounces of pureed spinach, his pureed sweet potatoes, and pureed grey mass that was labeled as “turkey”, he gathered his own consumption from the vestibule of his Mind Palace. One slice of toast with a cup of tea (sweetened) for breaking his fast this morning. John had slipped more of those granola bars into his Belstaff, along with an orange - which Sherlock had actually eaten. The orange, not the granola. Those went to Wiggins, one of his Homeless Network. Wiggins was mad for the things. Sherlock loathed them. John purchased the ones with no added sweetener. Much as Sherlock enjoyed raisins, they were just not enough when contending with granola. Sherlock entered “one orange”.

There had been the sugar pigs that Sherlock had found for the stockings. Marzipan, and probably not something that John would allow Siger to eat yet. Sherlock had to sample to know if they tasted right. “One marzipan pig”. Then the consulting detective had found old-fashioned gingerbread. Not the kind that appeared in Mary Poppins, all stiff boards covered with paper stars, but still thick with crystallized ginger and the taste of molasses. “Four ounces of gingerbread”. He had stopped by Mycroft’s very early and run into a domestic scene of his brother and Lestrade breakfasting on cups of _chocolat chaud_ and pastries. It would have been poor manners to turn down the offer. “Eight ounces of hot chocolate”.

Lunch had been spent with John. Some sort of vegetable curry soup, with corn muffins. Sherlock entered those. It had been entertaining to watch Siger make a mess with the friable cornmeal quick breads. 

He’d been tracking down a suspect in the afternoon. There had been boiled sweets in the Planning Commission Office, and peppermint sticks at the shady attorney’s; his receptionist was uninvolved in criminal actions, and Sherlock had - for some reason unknown, but which the consulting detective was attributing to the Christmas season - advised her of a job opening in another far more respectable place. “Two boiled sweets, two peppermint sticks”. There had also been caramels, toffee, and peppermint creams. Sherlock dutifully added those. Upon returning to Baker Street, Sherlock had been offered chocolate truffles by Alice Brown. They had been dark and just this side of bittersweet and creamy as they melted on his tongue. “Two dark chocolate truffles”. Was there a pattern here, he wondered, with everything going in twos?

On his way up to the flat, Mrs. Hudson had called him in to try the cognac liqueur chocolates that an old school friend had sent her for the holiday. They were potent. Sherlock had eaten three of them, while Mrs. Hudson nattered on about the old days and holiday hijinks and her excitement over Siger’s first Christmas. “Three cognac filled chocolates”.

Supper had been takeaway from the closest Chinese place. Sherlock added all the elements he thought he had ingested. Siger had tried his first non-pureed green bean, and seemed to enjoy gumming at it. For afters John had secured a pumpkin roll which had been annoyingly tasteless.

That evening Siger had asked to be picked up while his _père_ was lying on the couch. Not long after, the baby had gone to sleep stretched out on top of his father, and Sherlock had been loathe to shift him up to his crib. John was typing steadily and diligently, glad of the respite from minding them both.

The tacking of the keys faded, until Sherlock found himself standing with Siger in his arms in the middle of a storybook forest. The path was vague before them in the darkness, though he could see a light ahead. “Siger -” Sherlock gave the little person a hug “- have you inherited your father’s taste for adventure?”

Siger burbled an assent. How could it be otherwise? Together they traversed the darkened path that was remarkably free from tree roots or rocks. Sherlock found it in himself to be thankful for his dreamscape’s lack of stumbling hazards. The last thing he wanted to do, even in a dream, was to drop Siger. The path opened up into a clearing lit by torches. Hm. The torches did not appear to be consuming anything. Or being consumed. The illumination was unexpectedly good for firelight.

The stereotypical dwelling in the center was tiny. Not miniscule in the way that a doll or doghouse would be, but small enough to contain a one-room home. Sherlock had seen much smaller cottages in Scotland and other rural areas of the United Kingdom. It appeared to be constructed of a brown substance that resembled gingerbread. This went thematically with the overlapped boiled sweet shingles on the roof, and the peppermint decorations lining the pathway to the front door. “Siger,” Sherlock murmured into the baby’s red curls, “the sleeping mind can be very odd.”

Siger murmured an agreement. The woods were quiet around their voices. Studying the structure, Sherlock thought that it would be big enough to enter. The door lintel seemed to be above six feet. The windows looked to be made of rock candy - not much light would get in those - and could be shuttered by more gingerbread. The slats were delineated by white frosting. “Textbook, really,” he found himself muttering to Siger, “but not enough data.”

The red-curled baby burbled in response. Sherlock found himself looking down into that face, the one he had watched over the past seven months growing up. A pang struck him as he realized how much the baby meant to him.

What would John Watson do if faced with this scenario? Would he take the baby into a potentially dangerous situation? There would only be one reason why he would do so. To save someone’s life. To save Sherlock’s life. Not for curiosity’s sake. But then, John Watson was not a sociopath. Sherlock wasn’t either, according to John. 

This was a dream, not reality. In reality there would be a set of circumstances that informed Sherlock, and allowed him to make a decision. And if this were real, hopefully John would be there. He and John would tackle it head on, then. Sherlock was curious. What would his mind have placed inside of the cottage? What adventures would he find in this place? The detective reached out the arm that was not holding his son and swiped a finger down the red-and-white-striped lamppost. It smelt strongly of peppermint candy, not the tea that John used for upset tummies. 

Putting his finger to his mouth, he touched the tip of his tongue to it. Peppermint, and sweet. Siger was reaching, requesting some of whatever it was that _père_ was eating. Sherlock told him, “It’s a dream. It’s okay to do things in dreams,” and moved to let Siger touch the post. Of course, in no time Siger was completely sticky with the residue of the peppermint stick. 

Sherlock pressed a kiss to one red, sticky cheek. It was sweet with peppermint. Siger sang, “lalalalalala,” and his father could smell the sweetness wash across his face. _No_ , Sherlock thought, _I could never put this in danger._ ” Even in a dream.

They might not be able to protect Siger from everything. But he would not choose to carry his infant into the witch’s den. Turning, he walked back the way he had come, looking for the way to return to 221B. He found it when John woke him. “Sherlock, time to get Siger ready for bed. Did he wear you out? You were both sound asleep.”

“Nonsense, John. A nap doesn’t count as sound asleep. He’ll have to take his bath in the morning though, I think.” Swinging his long legs to the floor, Sherlock swept up Siger and carried him off to the upstairs. A change of soft cotton nappy, some footed pyjamas, and a rice-grain-sized bit of toothpaste on the brush to clean the two tiny white pearls of teeth, and Siger was ready for bed. The boy was still rubbing his eyes, struggling to stay awake for all of that. When Sherlock laid him stomach down on the crib mattress, placing the lambkin by him for when he woke in the morning, Siger smiled sleepily. Sherlock bent down to kiss his son goodnight, and on Siger’s breath he could smell the soft, sweet scent of peppermint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Sakuradancer3.
> 
> When Siger's older, he and Sherlock will probably go a bit crazy with the sweets...


	21. December 21st:  Solstice Gift

The Christmas cards were still arriving, and John hummed as he opened them, read each one, and put them on the card shelf. The last one today had the return address of Watson, and had traveled from Atlanta, Georgia in the United States of America. John smiled at the thought of Mary Morstan and Jack Watson. He wondered how their retirement was getting along.

Mary’s note asked that he ( _John, for I have no faith that Sherlock will answer_ ) go online and Skype them today, December 21st. John took a moment, cocked his head and listened. He heard Sherlock talking to Siger upstairs. Siger was answering back. They seemed to be playing, as John could hear the scrabble of wooden toys scattering across the floor. Now would be as good a time as any for John to get in touch with Mary and Jack. They should both be awake by now.

Sherlock heard John thundering up the steps to Siger’s bedroom. He and Siger were building with wooden alphabet blocks in an attempt to discover whether or not a death in Islington was due to misadventure (an incredibly stupid accident) or murder. Well, Siger was mostly putting the blocks in his mouth - was he already expecting another tooth? - or knocking over the neatly constructed buildings that Sherlock was putting together. The door was open, and John burst through the doorway. “Sherlock! Bring Siger!” and then he was gone back down the stairs.

Siger commented on his Daddy’s unusual behavior, then looked up at his father. Sherlock looked down at his son. “I have no idea, Siger. It’s not a murder. Lives are not at stake. He’s very excited, your daddy. Perhaps we should humour him?”

Siger agreed that would be the best thing to do. Sherlock was inordinately proud of his translations. Bundling Siger up in a jumper first, as the sitting room was a bit chilly from the picture window, Sherlock grabbed Siger, who grabbed at lambkin, and they gracefully maneuvered down the stairs.

John had set his laptop up on the coffee table, across from the sofa, and was chatting with someone. “No, he’s gotten his first two teeth. Both at once, if you can believe it.”

Sherlock sat on the couch. Oh. Visitors, even if they were online. “These are Dr. Mary Morstan and Dr. Jack Watson. They were at the Initiative,” he told Siger. Then he greeted Mary and Jack. While the vapid commentary on how much Siger had grown and “what a big boy” he was getting to be was exchanged, Sherlock was considering and deducing. He’d have said they wanted a favour, if anything. But there was nothing that he and John could do for them. They were not acting like clients who would be seeking his aid in solving a puzzle or a murder. Therefore it was something they thought they could give to him and to John as a gift or a favour. What would that be?

Siger was looking at the pair of them owlishly from Sherlock’s lap. His wide eyes tipped back and forth between the man and woman on the screen as they passed the conversation back and forth between them. Sigurd had been encouraged to speak to Daddy on Skype a short time ago. During a moment’s break, the baby put his two cents in with a long practiced gabble that tended to make older women fuss pleasantly over him. Yes, the woman loved that. Siger was pleased.

“Well,” Jack broke in after a good deal of what Sherlock considered unnecessary talk, “I know that Sherlock is wracking his brain to figure out why we insisted on talking to you face to face. Or as close to that as we can get on two different continents. We’ve been thinking about what you told Mary, back before Siger was born. We’ve discussed your situation with our family, and we want to introduce you to our granddaughter, Mary Watson. She’s our son, Eric’s daughter.”

Mary Watson looked a good deal like Jack, minus the mustache. Granted she was feminine as well. She was ginger, and got a little roundness from Mary, he thought. She was taller than her grandparents and looked to be quite young, just out of her teens, possibly. Her voice was a pleasant contralto. “Hi!” she started off with, only a little nervous judging by her mannerisms. “Gram and Grandpa Jack told me that you’re looking for an egg donation for your next baby. I’m young enough to be a good candidate, and Gram got me interested in your story. I’d like for you to consider me for when you decide to have your next child. I’m healthy, and Gram has my last work-up ready to send to you if you’re interested.”

Sherlock could feel John vibrating on the sofa next to him. For some reason he couldn’t look at his partner. Nor at Siger. His eyes stayed trained on the young woman who was offering them a brother for Siger. He opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out. Closing it, he turned to look at John Watson, who had by now calmed down somewhat. “Thoughts, Sherlock?” John asked with that grin he got when he’d sprung something on the detective and it had not been guessed.

“I…yes. Thank you, Mary. And Mary. And Jack. Yes. Yes, we would be interested.” Sherlock’s mind was now racing onto what information was necessary to determine her genetics and they’d not even started discussing what they were going to be looking for in a donor. She was tall, attractive, and looked healthy. He added, “Of course. John and I would like to meet you.”

A decisive nod from the younger Mary. “Of course!” She smiled, pleased.

Jack blew a laugh out of his walrus-like mustache. “Aren’t you going to ask John what he thinks?”

That brought Sherlock back to earth, to the feel of John next to him on the sofa, and of Siger in his lap. Siger was now sucking on lambkin’s ear, having lost interest in the discussion. “Really, Jack,” Sherlock said in the exasperated tone that had replaced the shredding of psyches when Siger was present, “look at John. What other answer do you think he is going to give? And Siger is unable to weigh in at this point in his life. The only answer we have at the moment is Yes.”

Sherlock’s huff of “Thank you” came shortly after, almost before John’s. 

There was much wishing of Christmas cheer, and a good Solstice, as it appeared that Mary Watson was a practicing pagan. John pressed the button to turn off the laptop, and sat back against the sofa. Turning, he reached for Siger, who had been a very good little boy, but was now quite ready to go back to knocking down his father’s alphabet block towers. Setting their son on the floor, and rescuing his laptop from an immediate assault, John looked at Sherlock and said, “Thoughts?”

“Yours first,” Sherlock countered.

“Well, it’s all a little bit stunning, isn’t it?” the blond-haired man said. “I hadn’t really been thinking about it, except as something in the future. We got a card from Jeannette last week. It’s one of the ones that has all our names on. It got me thinking a bit about it, but not really as something to plan for.

“So I guess that the question is, are we up for this?”

“What?” Sherlock asked with a bit of snark. “Parenthood?”

“Yeah,” John answered helplessly. “Again?”

Sherlock leaned back, his shoulder bumping the man he’d asked to share his life. “Yeah. Again!”

Siger, having discovered one of his plastic, squeaking bees, hummed happily at their feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Lunamoth116! Dr. John Watson and Dr. Mary Morstan.


	22. December 22:  Fruit cake

“It’s not always about murder,” Sherlock Holmes told Albert Tran in the produce aisle. The beginning of their adventure at Tesco’s had been a discussion on fruitcakes.

“What is that?” Sherlock asked as he came into the flat from a long session with Detective Inspector Lestrade and his infuriating team.

“That” was apparently a brick wrapped in tinfoil. John Watson looked up from feeding Siger mashed veg and glanced to where the detective was standing stiffly in the doorway pointing at the offending object. John shrugged. “A gift from Mrs. Turner. She makes them.”

Sherlock shuddered. “How do you know she made it? There’s a joke, John, that all fruitcakes are the same one passed from person to person.”

Siger objected as John’s spoon missed his mouth to poke the corner. “Sorry, sweet,” John told him, “I’m just stunned that _père_ told a joke!”

Siger spoke to his father at length, putting his hand into the bowl filled with orange mush that John had allowed a little too close to the highchair tray. John’s expletive had to do with foolish elves at Christmas. John was trying a little too hard, Sherlock thought, to avoid scatalogical phrasing. Mrs. Hudson had suggested a naughty word jar. Neither John nor Sherlock had seen much point. Either John would swear, or he wouldn’t.

Cleaning Siger’s face and hand with a soft towel, John spoke to Sherlock: “I am not fond of them myself. Fruitcakes. Mother used to make Dundee cake. Not the same. Still, very solid.”

“One must have plum pudding at Christmas, John,” Sherlock said loftily.

“Plum pudding, but not fruitcake?” John nodded. “I’m agreeable. Where shall we get it? They take a year to make. Both of them. Mrs. Turner must have started hers last Christmas.”

Sherlock looked thoughtful. “They’re baked, and then soaked in alcohol for a year?”

John laughed. “That’s what I understand. Well, plum pudding is steamed, instead of baked. Then soaked. I learned that from reading Dickens.”

“Worth the effort?” Sherlock asked.

“Not sure,” John replied. “We haven’t spoken about what to have for dinner on Christmas Day. What would you like? Turkey? Goose? A beef roast?”

A daunted look appeared on Sherlock’s face. “I don’t suppose we could trick Mycroft into providing the meal? His housekeeper is quite a good cook.”

“No, Sherlock. We’re not inviting ourselves to Mycroft’s. We’ll figure something out. Maybe we could go out for Christmas lunch,” John said.

Mrs. Hudson’s tall detective made a sound of discontent. “Christmas dinner should be shared at home, John.” His partner’s tone was frustrated.

John was reasonable. “We’ll just have to make our own, then. I’m game. You’ve fixed the oven, so we can roast something in there. So? Turkey? Goose? Or beef? Or would you rather have a ham?”

“Why don’t we fly to the moon while we’re at it?” Sherlock’s tone was acid. “Neither you nor I are up for that type of cooking, John.”

He received a long look from the shorter blond man. “We’re adults, Sherlock. We’ll do our best. If ordinary people with their tiny brains can do it, then I can, and certainly you can. Right?”

The long look was returned. “Very well. Which of those is the easiest?” Sherlock asked carefully.

“I guess we’ll have to do some research!” John sounded annoyingly cheerful. He released the baby from the highchair and put him down on the floor. “Siger, take your father out and play with him, while I clean up.” John didn’t look like he was cleaning up, as he went immediately to his laptop. His lips were moving. Sherlock read, “Is there room in the refrigerator?”

Sherlock grumbled, but not at Siger. Nor at John. “Fine. Siger, why don’t we go to visit Mrs Hudson and Alice Brown?”

Alice Brown, who was going to spend Christmas and the weekend after at her sister’s house, pointed out that she had never made a Christmas dinner. Her sister tended to insist on things her own way. Alice had roasted a chicken before, and suggested that as an alternative.

Albert Tran pointed out that many had started eating Christmas dinner at a Chinese restaurant. Sherlock did not assume he was joking. But after all, they ate takeaway frequently. This was to be Christmas Dinner, and John wanted traditional. Sherlock was certain of that.

Mrs. Hudson’s response to Sherlock’s query had been to cluck and advise Sherlock not to “blow up” anything. She was spending Christmas Day with her sister’s family, and was panicking about not having enough of a variety of biscuits to take as her share of the Christmas feast. Every little bit of time left was being spent baking nearly constantly. She was distracted and handed the baby a honey nut bar, for which Sherlock quickly substituted a piece of zwieback, and tucked the offending treat into his pocket.

Escaping from the heat and confusion of Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen, Sherlock and Siger sat on the steps and each gnawed their own baked good. “Siger,” the tall dark-haired man sighed down to his son, “I am afraid that we are not going to have a traditional Christmas dinner.”

A blast of cold air entered with Albert, who came in laden with plastic bags and his backpack. “Hallo! Are you waiting for someone?” he greeted them.

“Albert,” Sherlock started, only to be interrupted by John at the top of the seventeen steps. 

“What are you all doing down there? Come up and have tea,” the doctor called.

Sitting around the kitchen table with a pot of orange pekoe and a packet of John’s beloved Jaffa cakes, Sherlock tried again. “What meal does your family make to celebrate a holiday?”

“No, Sherlock,” John said from where he was introducing Siger to a pear slice. This distracted Sherlock, who was interested in everything that Siger was doing for the first time. They silently watched the baby explore the slice of pear with his mouth while the adults were drinking their tea and eating the biscuits from the packet on the table.

Albert, who took his tea black in contrast to John’s white and Sherlock’s sweet, asked, “When will you introduce Siger to tea?”

“At a year,” answered John.

Of course, Sherlock realized; John must be waiting to share his beverage of choice with their son. 

“Sherlock.” John was looking at him now. Sherlock heard him say, “We will have a turkey, brussell sprouts, and mash, with a plum pudding for after.

“I have recipes, and we’ll work our way through them. Bert, would you care to join us for Christmas dinner?” This was very much Captain John Watson taking charge.

“Sure,” Albert said, “that would be fun!”

“Good! Right! We’re going to Tesco this evening to get the ingredients. I have a list.”

It was a party of four, then. Albert told them, “I won’t cook, but I can help prep.”

Siger was always excited about a trip to the shops. Going to Tesco’s with both John and Sherlock and adding Albert into the mix delighted the baby! Sherlock handled the buggy, and the teachable moments, while John, his nose in the list, muttered unintelligibly about the items upon it.

Albert took the items from John and placed them in the cart. He found all of this amusing. Especially when Sherlock began to lecture his infant son on crimes committed with varieties of produce. After one particular story about a theft committed using a goose and a carved turnip, Albert asked, “Has anyone ever been murdered by a turnip?”

“It’s not always about murder, Albert,” Sherlock answered reprovingly. Albert began to laugh hysterically, and Siger happily joined him with a little baby gurgle of a laugh. John, having caught that last bit, just stared at his partner and lover. 

“A phrase I never expected to hear from Sherlock Holmes,” John Watson said dryly, and tossed a packet of sprouts to the taller man for inclusion in the contents of the buggy before moving on to the next item on the list.


	23. December 23:  Shopping for Siger

John and Sherlock were butting heads. This in itself was not unusual. The two men, one tall, handsome enough to make the shopgirls give a second look, long arms crossed as he stared down at the other shorter, man, a plain, good natured fellow with sand-coloured, grey speckled hair, jumper clad and standing with his hands on his hips. The oddity was that they both were in agreement in the main. Siger Hamish Holmes really did not need much in the way of anything for Christmas. The baby was sweet-natured, and not particularly demanding so far as material items were concerned. So he was not, _per se_ , spoiled.

But this baby had a good deal of care. His clothing was well-made and some of it very expensive. He had a sufficiency of it, in outfits that paralleled his _père’s_. They did not match, exactly. But they certainly complemented each other’s dress. 

Siger had jumpers. They were, to a certain extent, like his Daddy’s. Not in terms of material. One of Siger’s little jumpers cost more than two of John’s (before Sherlock's experiment with the acid bath) put together.

Siger’s diapers were soft cotton cloth, and a service kept them clean. On occasion he wore disposables, but even those were not of the cheap type whose tapes came undone seconds after fastening. 

Siger had books and toys and attention. He did not have a chemistry set. Yet. He did have a set of building blocks with the elements on them instead of the alphabet. Oh, he had alphabet blocks too. He had stuffed animals, real and imaginary, although he eschewed them all for Lambkin, who had his sole regard. He liked his squeaky bees, and tended to chew on them when he felt the need for teething.

What then, does a baby who has everything, need in the way of Christmas presents?

John and Sherlock had secured Bert’s services for the night, and were out shopping alone. Well, without the baby, anyway. They had found nothing they could agree upon so far as presents were concerned. 

Sherlock was putting up a fight over the little footballer outfit that John had discovered. John had already vetoed five other outfits suggested by Sherlock on the grounds that Siger needed more practical clothing. “We shouldn’t even be buying him clothing in his current size, Sherlock. He’s growing like a weed as it is!” John admitted.

“Exactly,” Sherlock smirked. “It stands to reason that we should get him clothes at a year and a half, since he is fitting in one year sizes already.”

“Does he really need all this clothing?” John asked before twisting the knife a bit. “You know that Mycroft will…” He did not get that thought finished, but of course he had not expected it to be.

Sherlock growled, “We do not need to depend on Mycroft for clothing for Siger.”

“No, no.” John gave him a smile. “Of course not. How about we come up with a reasonable set of clothes for the future, and a toy apiece? He really doesn’t need any more stuffed animals - we could lose him completely in the toy hamper.”

Sherlock looked worried. “I don’t want us to give separate gifts, John.”

John stopped where he was examining a small hoodie, and turned to really look at his partner. “They won’t be separate, Sherlock. We’ll both be giving them. I just meant that we each have different backgrounds. I want to get Siger a football, for example. You’ll have something else in mind.”

“Oh.” Sherlock sounded relieved.

“Why would you think we were giving separate presents?” John asked.

“It is our first Christmas as parents,” Sherlock Holmes pointed out, “and I’m uncertain of the rules. But I want to share this with you. I want us to do this together.”

John examined the tall, dark-haired man who looked out of place surrounded by a display of nappy covers. He asked curiously, “Will you be playing football with us? With Siger and me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John. Of course I will. _Mens sana in corpore sano_. Did you think it would be just you and Lestrade and Siger going off to play team games without me?” Sherlock said with certainty.

“I just never pictured you in a game of footie, Sherlock. Fencing possibly,” he returned with a smile. “Or free climbing buildings, maybe!”

Sherlock snorted. “Well, that as well, certainly. I don’t play polo, as Mycroft does.”

“Polo?” John laughed. “Not something I’d picture Mycroft doing, no.”

“He used to pretend it was human heads he was smacking about with that mallet,” Sherlock confided.

“Alright, now I can imagine it,” John agreed. “Getting back to the discussion at hand. What do we give Siger for his Christmas presents?”

“Shall we purchase one good suit, a couple for play, and a pair of night outfits in eighteen months? We’ll allow for sappily sentimental cuteness for half of those,” Sherlock proposed.

“Then we’ll get the footie ball, and those developmental puzzles you were pretending not to look at. That with a couple of books should be plenty,” John added.

“He can’t walk yet, John. He’s not going to be running about playing football with us for a while.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow in challenge.

John sighed. Then brightened. “We can roll it, and he can crawl to chase it. It’s just a little one! Not anywhere near regulation-sized.”

Sherlock sighed, too. “It doesn’t squeak, so it’s not like those rubber balls Siger has been hiding around the flat. We’ll just have to make certain that it doesn’t end up at the top of the stairs. And we’ll get the little plush violin instead of the puzzles. Siger might find that interesting when I play. We’ll be getting him his own to learn on when he’s older.”

John grinned. Then, as a thought came to him, he said, “Sherlock. We need to get a team shirt for Siger. If we don’t, then Greg will give him one in Arsenal colours.”

“We can’t have that,” murmured Sherlock in his deep voice. “Yes, John, we can buy Siger a Manchester United shirt.”


	24. December 24th:  Christmas Eve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the lateness of the posting. 
> 
> Happy Christmas to you all!

Eleven pip emma was late for Siger to be awake. Saint Cyprian’s Christmas Eve mass started at eleven, and it was best to get to the church an hour early for a seat. John had ensured that the baby had napped, and for the most part his child was quiet as they took their seats in the packed church. John was at his most Captain Watson, stiffly ignoring one or two disapproving looks as he brought an infant to the service. Sherlock had a smirk as he observed the men and women around them. He kept his inferences to himself for now. The setting was Charpentier’s _Messe de minuit pour noël_. Sherlock made a pleased sound at that. John had no knowledge of Charpentier as a composer, but obviously his partner did. Siger nodded off against John’s shoulder in the bright warm church, unmoving through singing and movement, only waking at the motet, _In the Bleak Midwinter_. John had heard Sherlock play it on violin. 

Siger was familiar with the piece. The suddenly wakeful baby began to chatter to John; whether he was commenting on the music, or singing along, John wasn’t sure. A responsible man, he began to rise, to take the noisy infant out, when Sherlock put a restraining hand on his arm. Sitting back down, he looked at the tall man next to him. His partner raised an eyebrow and said, “Siger” quietly. When the infant looked at his _père_ , Sherlock raised a finger to his ear. Their son cut off immediately in the middle of a syllable. Silent. John blinked. Siger was staring at his father. Waiting, John thought. The motet went on without their attention as they watched the baby silently attentive. Sherlock was smiling at his son, enormously pleased, and reached forward to take him from John, then stood to take him out. John followed quietly. They reached the porch, and doors closed behind them, shielding the service from any noise. John opened his mouth, but Sherlock reached up and put a finger on his own mouth, breaking the spell. Siger was overjoyed, and his babbling speech filled the small space.

“What?” John asked, at a loss for words. 

“I wasn’t sure it would work!” Sherlock said with glee, hugging the baby. “We’ve been practicing it!”

“How did you manage that?” John muttered. “He never manages quiet for that long.”

Sherlock was serious as he told John, “It occurred to me that there might come a time when Siger would need to be silent. In case of kidnappers, or so on. Predators and so forth.”

“You taught Siger to be silent at a signal, in case he might be stalked by kidnappers?” John was incredulous.

Sherlock nodded casually. “It makes sense, John. Don’t you think?”

What could the doctor say to that? With their extraordinary lives? He gave his son a kiss on the red curls of his head. “You are a wonder, Siger,” he told the baby.

“Exemplary!” Sherlock proclaimed.

Exemplary, possibly, but now wide awake and ready to speak at length. John and Sherlock decided it was time to go home.

John’s ears were still filled with music. There was something about the ritual and shared song in the Christmas Eve service that lifted up the joy of the celebration. Buoyed it.

221B was dark when they arrived, except for the Fairy Lights. John had turned them on as their tiny family departed for the church. He left them on after they climbed up the steps to their flat. Albert was out at a Christmas party with friends from uni. Best to give him a welcome whenever he got home.

Siger was wide awake and cooed at the bare evergreen on its painted stand in the sitting room. Sherlock held the baby close to allow him exploration of the long needles on the fir tree. Siger gripped but did not yank on the tree. Letting go, he put his fingers to that tiny nose and gave a squeak of surprise. “Yes, Siger, it’s a pine tree. It smells of sap.”

“Bedtime,” John called from the kitchen where, to judge from the chatter, he was preparing their son’s goodnight bottle.

Siger protested volubly. It availed him naught, though tonight the bedtime did include all three. Sherlock and John took turns reading - “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day” and the last little bit from _A Christmas Carol_. Siger stashed his toy bees in a corner of the crib and voluntarily lay down with his blanket and Lambkin to go to sleep.

Checking the monitor, then closing the door softly behind them, John and Sherlock went down the flight of stairs to decorate the tree.

Tomorrow morning there would be stockings and gifts and food and fellowship. Siger would be assisted in hanging his first Christmas ornament. For now, Sherlock Holmes and the man he had chosen to be his life’s partner would decorate the tree together, just as Sherlock’s parents had done so many years ago.


	25. December 25th:  Christmas Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas! Thank you for sharing this with me!

Stage One: Christmas Day awakening.

John woke up to a cheery little face peering at him from close quarters, a toy lamb stuffed into the almost toothless mouth. It was not the face he was accustomed to rouse to. “Siger?” he husked in a just-awake voice.

“Ba. Bababababa,” Siger told him, waving Lambkin in his general direction.

Sherlock Holmes, his curled hair still mussed from sleep, was sitting up on the other side of their baby, clicking away at his laptop. Taking a moment to look over, his fingers continuing to move, he said, “Good morning, John. Happy Christmas.”

Siger agreed: “Agaa.” John noticed that the squeaky bees had joined them in the bed as well.

Pushing himself up, running a hand through his greying hair, John asked, “Is everything okay?”

Sherlock Holmes stopped clacking at the laptop keys. “Everything is fine. We were eager to start Christmas Day. Siger and I got breakfast to let you sleep in a little more.”

They had indeed. A plate of buttered toast, a pot of robust black tea under one of the holiday cosies that Mrs. Hudson had pressed upon them - the tea smelt strong and good to John’s just awakened nose - pots of jams, a jar of honey, and Siger’s morning bottle were placed decoratively upon their one large tray. The thick wooden board was sitting now upon Sherlock’s bedside table, dwarfing the antique piece of furniture.

Sherlock was still in his night clothes, a soft old gray tee shirt and a pair of navy blue pyjama pants, while Siger was dressed in his Christmas babygrow, bright green with a red Christmas ornament decorating the front. The baby was quite happy to be playing on their bed, which was someplace new and interesting. Anywhere his fathers were was interesting to begin with. Siger was rarely brought or allowed into this room, in spite of its being one of the easier places in the flat to baby-proof. There was a single box under the table, and most of the surfaces were kept clear. John’s handgun was now kept in the locked safe downstairs in the office of 221C. They had, however, decided to keep this one space private, as theirs.

Patting his pillow against the headboard to form a back support, John asked Siger, “Do you want your bottle?”

Siger looked over to where it sat, then held his hands out to be cuddled. “Ba. Bababababa.”

Settling the baby on his lap, John was handed the bottle and got Siger situated while Sherlock prepared the doctor a cup of tea. It was pretty near perfect. “Did you make this?” he asked. To be fair, Sherlock had made an effort over the past few months in learning to make tea. Upon receiving a nod from the detective, John finished, “It’s perfect.”

That brought a small smile to Sherlock’s mouth, and a large grin to John’s. They shared the toast, piled high with jam or dripping with honey, and drank the entire pot of tea. Siger was happy to finish his bottle before essaying a piece of buttered toast crust.

They got crumbs all over the bed. They did manage not to spill anything. It was the oddest, and most enjoyable breakfast in bed that John had ever eaten. Stacking the plates and bits and pieces on the tray, John took it to the kitchen on his way to the bath to get showered for the day. Pulling on a track suit after taking a quick shower, he looked over to where Sherlock was again typing on the bed, while Siger played with his bees and Lambkin. “We ready then?” he asked.

The laptop went away. They gathered up the baby and adjourned to the sitting room.

Stage Two: Stockings, presents and the tree.

Sherlock had managed to get Siger and all of the breakfast items into their bedroom without Siger seeing the tree. It was a monumental accomplishment. The fairy lights twinkled around the coloured glass balls of ornaments, tiny snowflakes hanging from the ends of the pine tree, and the dark-haired angel on top. John had been prepared for their son to be oblivious after all their work of the night before. He need not have worried. Siger was astounded and delighted, breaking out into a long garbled string of a question, which Sherlock interpreted out loud as, “Siger is completely amazed at the wonder we have wrought with the tree that was so bare last night.”

Amazed, yes. Siger wanted to explore the tree. They allowed him to gently touch the ornaments. The tree held his interest for a while, but soon enough they were able to sit down on the floor by the tree and look into the stockings that had been hanging plump and full on the mantlepiece. Siger was not sure of what to do with his full stocking. Sherlock began to take items out, slowly and giving the baby time to examine each, and choose to take a polished apple, or a new chewing ring for teething, before stacking each treasure carefully in a large bowl. John’s and Sherlock’s stockings held items that Siger could not share, of course - tiny bottles of alcohol, chocolates, nuts and tangerines. 

They took their time. Siger was happy to show these wonderful things to his _père_ and Daddy and discuss them. Sherlock pointed out that the baby did not know there were presents coming. Possibly Siger did not understand what gifts were. They had discussed _Père Noel_ , but really it was not something they’d focused on this year.

The flat boxes of clothing held passing interest. Siger knew what clothes were, but was not particularly interested at this point. The books captured his attention for a time. It was the tiny soccer ball and the plush violin that excited him most. Looking to where Sherlock’s case stood open, the warm brown finish of the violin gleaming in the fairy light, Siger held a bee in one hand, the violin in the other, and clashed them together. His parents laughed. Sherlock rose and pulled out his bow, tightening the hairs and rosining them before starting in to _In the Bleak Midwinter_. “You should open your boxes, John,” he said while he played.

John eyed the packages. He knew clothing boxes when he saw them, and had a strong suspicion as to what they contained. Opening them, they were lovely jumpers. Nicer than the ones he had owned before, and obviously chosen with a clever eye. Not expensive enough that John would feel uncomfortable wearing them, afraid to get them dirty or needing to save them for a special occasion. As an apology, they were more than John was used to. Sherlock smiled when John skinned off the sweatshirt and pulled the oatmeal Aran over his head.

“Are you opening yours?” John was nervous, and it showed in his voice. 

Sherlock lowered his bow, gestured with it, a fluid extension of his arm. “It’s beautiful, John. Peccatte, pernambuco. Not as quick as a modern bow, but lovely. Smooth as butter, don’t you think?” and he swung into _Un flambeau, Jeanette, Isabelle_.

Stage Three: Preparing the meal.

Stuffing the turkey was a clammy procedure that Dr. Watson handled with surgical precision. Chestnut dressing in the cavity, loose to allow for expansion. John had been studying recipes for two days. Sherlock volunteered to chop celery and onions into compulsively regular dice. 

Siger watched from his high chair, but quickly lost interest and picked up his bees who began an intense conversation. The violin and Lambkin were tucked tightly in at his side to prevent their wandering off. 

Conversation was light, John’s curses infrequent. He had a timetable written out longhand on a paper on the kitchen table. Turkey. Then potatoes. Then sprouts. The oven had been measured to ensure all of the pans would fit and still enable effective distribution of heat. Or so Sherlock had explained to John and Siger.

When the bound, skewered, and filled turkey nestled in the black enameled roasting pan was shoved onto the wire shelf in the oven, John slammed home that oven door with enthusiasm. “Yes!” he shouted before knocking the faucet on and to “hot” so that hands could be washed carefully and thoroughly. 

Sherlock, by this time, cleaned his hands and resettled the long sleeves back down to his wrists. The taller man smiled at Siger, who was staring at their cook with wide eyes, his Lambkin now half raised above the red curls of his head. 

“What now?” Sherlock directed those words to his doctor.

“Nap time for Siger,” John said as he set the timer on the back of the stove. “We’re free until time to put the potatoes in. I was thinking of taking short nap myself.”

That prompted a remark from Sherlock regarding a better use for the bed. “Listen to you,” laughed the doctor, “didn’t you get enough last night?”

“Think of it as exercise. You can work off the meal you’ve been working on.” Sherlock looked at John with his version of a come-hither look.

Well, John wasn’t about to say no to that. After Siger fell asleep.

Stage Four: Christmas Lunch.

They set up the kitchen table in the sitting room, by the decorated tree, fairy lights flickering. Siger trundled around the flat from room to room chasing his black and white ball, while his parents placed plates, silver, linens, and Christmas crackers at each setting. The turkey was “resting” in the kitchen, all dressing removed and in a covered serving dish. The potatoes, oven roasted then whipped with butter and cream, were browning in the oven. The sprouts glistened with bacon and slivers of carrots. A small bowl of jellied cranberries looked festive nearby.

Bert joined them in time to laugh at John’s attempt to carve the bird. “You’re a surgeon, John,” Sherlock said with a gleaming eye. “I expected you to be able to cut apart a bird.”

“Not the same at all,” John grumbled. 

Siger was impressed because they were eating in the sitting room at a table, with a burgundy cloth, some of Mrs. Hudson’s special place settings, and Christmas music playing in the background. He himself was in his high chair, bedecked in a bib sporting a Christmas tree. Pieces of turkey, boiled potato, a few brussel sprout leaves and bits of carrot were littered about the plastic tray. 

The meal was simple enough. Sherlock ate enough to impress John. John enjoyed the food as well as the idea that he had created it (and that it had all come out on time and unburnt). The chestnuts in the dressing were hard as rocks, and Bert, John, and Sherlock took to stacking them into a pyramid on a plate in the center of the table. Siger enjoyed the bits of solid food that engaged his attention enough for the others to eat their meal. Talk was of traditions, and the Queen's Christmas message for the year. 

There was plenty of food, wine, and companionship. Crackers ended the meal, along with nuts in the shell. John, Sherlock and Bert read the proverbs in the most emphatic voices possible, prompting giggles, which the baby joined them in. Siger found it hilarious to see his _père_ and Daddy and Bert with tissue paper crowns upon their heads. Bert had brought a tiny Father Christmas hat for Siger to wear, and it stayed on for almost five minutes entire.

Stage Five: After Christmas Dinner Walk.

Bundling Siger up in his bunting took longer than expected. After handing Lambkin to Bert, the baby refused to let go of his violin. The plush toy, while yielding to some extent, would not go through the tight sleeve of the heavy coverall. A brief peeling of the tiny fingers had to be done, the violin dropped, then retrieved and offered to the baby on the verge of tears. Siger grabbed the toy and clasped it to his chest with a look of bitter reproach. “He’s already attached to that, isn’t he?” Bert commented as he kept Lambkin, whom Siger was pretending not to see.

It was growing dark when they fastened the infant into the stroller. They walked along the empty street, looking into the windows of businesses closed for the holiday, Sherlock giving insight into aspects of the owners’ lives that would be invisible to the ordinary passersby. “It’s nice to be out,” John said.

Bert, who had been out and about all day, smiled. “A bit brisk,” he noted.

“All the better to get air into the lungs,” Sherlock answered. “Now, if we were only to come across some reason for a cross-London chase…”

John gave him a look. “Not with Siger in a stroller, Sherlock, no.”

Perhaps not. But Siger was happy to be outside. He commented loudly to his companions, and to the violin and Lambkin, whom Bert had tucked in beside him in the stroller seat. Their walk was not long - they did have to return to 221B before company called - but the brisk pace felt good.

Stage Six: The company of family and friends.

Mycroft and Gregory Lestrade sat on the sofa, Siger between them, and ate biscuits and drank a special Christmas tea that John had purchased. Bert was in the background, listening to the conversation and reading over a book on medical oddities that he’d received from Sherlock and John. Harry leaned over the back of John’s chair, wrapped in a cashmere pashmina that was her gift from John, Sherlock and Siger, chaffing the police officer about a traffic delay that she’d encountered on her way. No punch with alcohol had been provided, and it was not being mentioned, though Harry was imbibing a diet soft drink rather than tea. “Tired of tea, John,” she’d said before pulling the unopened bottle out of her purse.

Sherlock had given John a nod. Not a doctored drink then. John had relaxed minutely. Harry was good company tonight, and he didn’t want to jinx that with unfounded accusations. Siger was in the process of opening gifts from his extended family to the focused attention of every adult in the room. Auntie Harry had been knitting again, and Siger had a new hat. True to John’s prediction, the baby had received an Arsenal shirt from “Uncle Detective Inspector Lestrade” as Sherlock had been calling Greg. 

John‘s ferocious frown had amused both Greg and Uncle Mycroft. Siger, who was uninterested in clothing, had given his Daddy a concerned look, whereupon John reassured him, “Uncle Greg’s team is different from Daddy’s, Siger. Don’t fret.” 

Siger had taken John at his word, and was now showing Uncle Mycroft how to play upon his new toy violin with one of the squeaky bees. “Very nice, Siger. Your father started playing his violin at three years of age.” Mycroft turned and asked Sherlock, who was lounging in the kitchen doorway, “Are you planning on starting Siger on the violin as well?”

“That is the plan,” Sherlock drawled.

“Unless ‘Uncle Greg’ is going to give him a drum set,” John grumbled.

Sherlock shot a shocked look at those on the sofa. “He had better not! Lestrade, any drumming had better be done away, far away, from 221B!”

“Can’t be worse than you sh…” John changed his words with a glance at Greg, “screeching on the violin at 3 A.M.”

Greg threw him a glance, but did not pursue the slip. It was, after all, Christmas. There had been no drug busts in over a year. The detective inspector was inclined to the belief that while John was good for Sherlock, Siger was very good for John and Sherlock. 

John thought this was a good time for Sherlock to bring out the last gifts. Mycroft gave his brother a concerned look as he took the plain white box, topped with a red bow. Greg held onto the pasteboard box in his own hands, indicating that Mycroft should start. 

Mycroft gently shook the box. An uncertain look crossed his face. Looking over at Sherlock, he had a question in his eyes. “Open it,” Sherlock told him impatiently.

With long, careful fingers the minor government official slit the cellophane tape, opened the lid, and removed the marzipan umbrella ornament. He examined the piece silently. Greg Lestrade watched with no comprehension, but a good deal of patience. He’d ask on the way home. “This,” Mycroft began, then had to stop to clear his throat, “is wonderful. Thank you, Sherlock. Thank you, John.” After a moment of thought he turned to the little face beside him. “Thank you, Siger.”

Greg opened his own box, pulling out the marzipan shield. He examined it, noted the Lestrade coat of arms without surprise, but with a smile, and thanked John, Sherlock, and Siger as well. These crazy Holmeses and their Holiday Traditions!

Stage Seven: Dulce Domum.

“Bedtime, Siger,” John said, holding his hands out for the baby as Mycroft and Greg put on their coats. Harry had headed out shortly before, and Bert had retreated to his room in 221C long since. Siger was yawning widely, obviously past ready, but fighting to stay awake so long as interesting things were going on. Mycroft gave him a kiss; Greg shook the little hand. “We need to get Siger together with my niece’s two from the Initiative. Let me know when is good for you,” he said to John and Sherlock. Then, as Siger held his face up in obvious expectation of a kiss, Greg leaned down and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Happy Christmas, Siger,” Greg said softly.

Their guests gone, John and Sherlock took the baby upstairs together. “What do we read tonight, John? Siger?” Sherlock asked while changing the baby.

John shook his head. “I have no idea. It’s been a long day. He’s been very good. I thought he’d crash long before this.”

Choosing a book of poetry at random, John began, “Gentle Jesus, meek and mild, Look upon a little child…” 

“John,” Sherlock said, drawing his partner’s attention to where Siger lay, in his cot fast asleep. Lambkin, the violin, the bees, all hugged together in his arms. The soccer ball was there as well, having been placed there earlier at Siger’s instruction. Or so Sherlock had translated the sounds.

John leaned down to give his son a kiss on the forehead plastered with sweated red curls. Sherlock followed suit, before checking the monitor, and closing the door softly behind them as they left the room. 

There was not much in the way of tidying to be done. John had washed the dinner dishes earlier. Putting away detritus and stacking the remaining dishes in the sink was soon accomplished, and then John and Sherlock made their own preparations for bed. Sherlock, clad in a pair of black flannel pyjamas was on his laptop as John climbed into bed, dressed in his boxers and a tee shirt. “Go to sleep, John. I’ll turn out the light when I’m done,” was said absently. 

“Happy Christmas, Sherlock,” John smiled and leaned forward for a sideways goodnight kiss before lying down.

Sherlock stopped his typing and looked at his partner. “Good night, John. Happy Christmas,” he said softly before leaning in to kiss the sand-coloured hair on the pillow beside him. Home, sweet home.

**Author's Note:**

> If you have a suggestion for something you'd like to see, and it would fit in the series, let me know.


End file.
